THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SEASIDE  SONGS 


AND 


WOODLAND  WHISPERS 


BY 


OSCAR  E.  YOUNG. 


"  Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be." 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION 


BUFFALO 

(CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTOIS[ 


Copyright 

1890 
By  OSCAR  E.  YOUNG 


PRESS  OF 

PBTHR  PAUL  4  BRO., 
BUFFALO,  N.  Y, 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


SEASIDE  SONGS. 
Seaside  Songs,  ......  3 

A  Sea  Dream,          ......  5 

Tossed  on  the  Tide,       .  .  .  .  .  .  10 

Then  and  Now,       .  .  .  .  .  .  1 1 

A  Winter's  Day,  .  .  .  .  .  .12 

Driftwood,  .  .  .  .  .  .  14 

Out  on  the  Sea,  .  .  .  .  .  17 

Disappointed,  .  .  .  .  .  .  19 

The  Mystic  Curtain,       .  .  .  .  .  .21 

Over  the  Waves,      ..'...  .  .  .  .  24 

Suicide,  .......  26 

Whose  ?.......  29 

With  the  Tide,  .  .  .  .  .  .31 

Undercurrent,  ......  33 

Drifting,  .......  35 

Night  by  the  Seaside,  .....  38 

Written  in  Sand,  ......  40 

WOODLAND  WHISPERS. 

Little  Sweethearts,                ;             .             .             .             .  44 

Woodland  Whispers,     .--.'.             .             .             .  .46 

Alone  with  Nature,               .             .             .             .             .  49 

Nature's  Music,              .....  54 

Blasted,        ..,,,,,  6 


623936 


iv  Contents. 

Maple  Leaves,  .  .  .  .  .  -57 

The  Moon  and  the  Firefly,  ....  59 

In  the  Hammock,          .  .  .  .  .  .61 

Touched  by  the  Frost,         .  .  63 

From  Both  Sides,  ......  65 

SONGS  OF  SORROW. 

Confessions,              ...:..  68 

The  Patriarch's  Death,                .....  73 

Dream  and  Reality,              .             .             .             .             .  75 

O  Fair  and  Spotless  Sleeper,      .  .  .  .  -77 

Memories,    .......  79 

Gone,  T  .  .  .  .  .  .81 

The  Graveyard  by  the  Shore,           ....  83 

Calm  after  Storm,           ......  85 

Showers,      .......  87 

Isobelle,             .......  88 

The  Union  Station,               .             .             .             .             .  91 

The  Holly  Queen,          ...  93 

Sometime;  Not  Now,          .....  95 

Waiting  Evermore,         ......  97 

The  Newmade  Grave,          .....  98 

A  Memory  Picture,         ......  100 

HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

The  Poem  Mill,       .....  103 

The  Girl  of  To  day,      .             .  .             .         108 

Once,           .             .             .             .             .             .  in 

Geese,    ...  ...         113 

The  Poor  Poet's  Pegasus,    .             .             .  .                114 

A  Fool's  Fate,  .             .             .             .             .  .             .116 

Advice  to  the  Boys,              .    '         .             .             .  .                120 

The  Measure  of  all  Things,       .                          ,  .        .123 


Contents.  v 

Kissing  in  the  Dark,             ....  124 

A  Courting  Experience,              .              .             .  .             .128 

A  Problem,                ......  132 

After  the  Church  Fair,                .             .             .  .             .134 

Men  and  Places,      .             .             .             .              .  .                136 

FLOWER  SONGS. 

Pyxie,    .             .             .             .             .             .  .             .          140 

Daisies,        .......  143 

Wild  Roses,       .             .                          .  .             .         145 

May — flowers,          ......  147 

Buttercups,         .             .             .             .             .  .             .149 

SCRIPTURAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

Bartimeus,                .             .             .             .             .  152 

Now  I  Lay  Me,              .             .             .             .  .                       159 

The  Tempest,           .             .             .             .             .  .                161 

The  Prodigal's  Prayer,  .             .             .             .  .             .163 

A  Legend,  .             .             .             .             .             .  .                165 

O  Father,  Hear  Me !      .             .             .             .  .             .          167 

Samson's  Soliloquy,               .              .              .              .  .                 169 

Hopes  and  Dreams,       .             .             .             .  .             .172 

Nothing  but  Leaves,             .             .             .             .  .                173 

The  Prodigal's  Return,               .             .             .  .             .174 

"  Whatever  Cometh,  Cometh  Well."            .             .  .                 176 

Praise  Song,       .              .              .              .              ,  .              .178 

God's  Letter,           .             .             .             .             .  .                180 

LOVE  LYRICS. 

Drifted  Apart,    .             .             .             .             .  .             .184 

Our  Meeting,            .             .             ,             .             .  .                187 

The  Acacia-tree,             .             .             .             .  .             .189 

The  Walk  Untaken,             .                           .             .  191 

Song,     ...                           .  -193 


vi  Contents. 

I  Dreamed  That  I  was  Dead,          .             .             .             .  195 

Parted,               .......  197 

To  Ellie,      .             .                                                     .  199 

Longings,           .......  201 

Under  the  Stars',       ......  203 

Mizpah,              .......  205 

Stella           .......  207 

O  Deep,  Dark  Eyes !     .                                        ...  209 

The  Difference,        .             .             .              .             .             .  211 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
The  Maniac,      .  .  .  .  .  .  .215 

A  Ruin,        .......  238 

In  the  Churchyard,         ........  241 

Come  Sing  to  Me,       ........  244 

In  Dreamland,       .........  247 

Good-Bye,           .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  249 

In  the  Firelight, 251 

L'Envoi,             ...                         ...  254 


SEASIDE  SONGS. 


SEASIDE   SONGS. 

There's  a  voice  comes  up  from  the  sounding  sea 
With  its  pulsing  bosom  that  throbs  and  swells. 

As  I  sit  and  listen,  it  sings  to  me 

A  wild  and  a  wonderful  harmony, 
And  I  half  interpret  the  tale  it  tells. 

• 

Down  under  the  ocean's  heaving  breast 

The  heart  of  Nature  beats  evermore, 
And  the  thoughts  there  throbbing  are  half  expressed 
In  the  song  it  sings  in  its  long  unrest, 

As  the  waves  sonorous  roll  on  the  shore. 

In  glittering  sunlight,  serenely  fair, 
As  the  shining  ripples  caress  the  beach, 

It  sings  of  love  and  its  raptures  rare, 

And  murmurs  a  melody  soft  as  prayer, 
A  melody  sweeter  by  far  than  speech. 

When  the  stars  look  down  through  the  shades  of  night 

With  pitying  eyes  on  the  scene  below, 
Where  their  calm  reflections  are  wavering  bright, 
Then  the  seaside  song  through  the  dusky  light 
Thrills  with  tender  sorrow  and  wordless  woe. 


Seaside  Songs. 

But  the  howling  storm-wind  in  tempest  might 
Bears  a  battle  hymn  on  the  ocean's  breath, 
And  it  chants  of  crimes  and  of  deeds  of  night, 
Of  the  nameless  horrors  ne'er  brought  to  light, 
Of  mortal  danger,  despair  and  death. 

The  songs  of  the  seaside  reveal  to  me 

Strange,  awful  things  in  their  mystic  speech  ; 
.  Quaint  tales,  wild  stories  of  mystery, 
Fresh  fancies,  gleams  of  sublimity  — 

All  these,  and  more,  to  my  soul  they  teach, 

I  have  taken  a  point  of  the  shining  steel 
And  dipped  it  deep  in  a  dye  of  night, 
And  the  wordless  music,  whose  sense  I  feel, 
That  the  ocean  chants  with  its  sounding  peal, 
As  my  soul  interprets  it,  so  I  write. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Nov.  2Oth,  1889. 


A  Sea  Dream. 


A  SEA  DREAM. 

Meth'jught  I  floated  on  a  starlit  sea, 

In  the  calm  beauty  of  the  summer  moon 

That  shone  in  silver  o'er  me.     Like  a  cloud 

Floating  at  even  through  the  azure  sky, 

My  light  skiff  floated  on  the  dimpling  deep 

That  rippled  in  the  moonbeams,  sending  forth 

A  thousand  thousand  phosphorescent  gleams 

From  its  dark  bosom.     In  the  vast  above 

The  pale  stars  throbbed  and  trembled,  while  below 

Their  faint  reflections  swam  and  throbbed  again. 

From  the  dim  distance,  where  the  tree-clad  shore 
Showed  indistinct  in  silver  glory  poured 
From  Luna's  full-orbed  shield,  that  hung  above 
And  shed  a  mellow  radiance  on  the  scene, 
Came  the  faint  murmur  of  the  rippling  tide 
Kissing  the  sandy  beaches.     Hushed  the  winds 
And  tranquilized  the  waves;  and  o'er  the  sea, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  that  perfect  night, 
Like  a  soul  floating  in  unending  rest, 
In  my  frail  bark  I  floated  on  alone. 


A  Sea  Dream. 

But  suddenly,  methought,  up  from  the  deep 

Came  a  soft  strain  of  sweetest  melody, 

Like  nothing  earthly  ever  heard  before. 

Faint,  strange  and  thrilling,  blending  with  the  chime 

Of  the  low  murmur  from  the  far-off  shore, 

And  the  calm,  mystic  beauty  of  the  night, 

Came  the  soft  notes  of  perfect  harmony, 

Like  half-heard  echoes  of  an  angel's  song. 

Through  my  rapt  spirit  crept  the  strain  divine 

With  strange,  bewitching  power,  and  every  nerve 

Was  throbbing,  trembling  with  an  ecstasy 

As  if  my  soul,  intoxicated  deep, 

Had  fed  to  fullness  on  the  food  of  gods, 

Or  fire  and  honey  blended.     And,  as  came 

The  music  nearer,  clearer  than  at  first, 

The  wild,  strange  madness  in  my  spirit  grew, 

Absorbing  reason,  almost  thought  itself. 

Then  suddenly  before  the  pointed  prow 

The  gleaming  waves  divided,  rolling  back 

In  drops  of  glittering  silver  from  a  form 

That  cleft  their  dim,  cool  bosoms.     From  the  deep 

A  shape  of  strange,  unearthly  beauty  rose, 

A  sea-maid  pale,  with  wildly  streaming  hair, 

Like  threads  of  amber  from  the  deep  sea  caves, 

Hiding  the  water  where  she  rose  and  dipped 

With  the  slow  motion  of  voluptuous  swells: 


A  Sea  Dream. 

Breast-deep  she  floated  in  the  pulsing  sea, 
Clad  only  in  the  glory  of  her  hair, 
That  half  revealed'a  form  whose  perfectness  . 
No  sculptor  ever  dreamed  of,  and  so  white 
That  marble  by  its  side  would  seem  unclean, 
And  snow  new-fallen  as  a  thing  defiled. 

Oh,  the  smooth  whiteness  of  the  fair,  pure  throat, 

The  perfect,  lucent  features,  rounded,  soft,    • 

Clear  as  if  from  some  heavenly  crystal  cut, 

And  far  surpassing  all  things  earth  e'er  knew, 

As  pearl  dark  coal  surpasses  !     And  her  eyes, 

Large,  tender,  luminous,  of  wondrous  tint 

That  mere  words  fail  to  picture  !     Somewhat  like 

The  glorious  gleaming  of  great  emeralds, 

Lying  in  watery  radiance  on  the  floor 

Of  some  deep  ocean  bower,  and  somewhat  like 

The  light  that  through  the  clear  green  water  streams 

Into  the  palaces  of  ocean-gods  ! 

Out  from  the  golden  glimmer  of  her  hair 
And  the  dim  darkness  of  the  shadowy  sea 
Rose  two  fair  arms  of  pure,  unearthly  white, 
More  perfect  than  an  artist's  dream  of  those 
Of  the  pure  Virgin  Mother.     In  her  hands 
A  wondrous  shell  of  carven  pearl  she  bore, 
Studded  with  gleaming  gems  and  strung  with  gold, 
Which,  as  her  perfect  fingers  o'er  it  strayed, 
Gave  forth  the  soft,  sweet,  throbbing  melody 


A  Sea  Dieam. 

That  held  my  spirit  captive  ;  and  her  eyes, 
Those  wondrous,  luminous,  alluring  eyes, 
In  which  a  wild,  unearthly  rapture  gleamed, 
From  out  the  cloud  of  glory  where  she  swam, 
(For  all  the  brightness  of  the  moon  and  stars 
Seemed  gathered  round  her  in  a  silver  mist,) 
Beamed  into  mine  and  filled  my  soul  with  fire. 

Trembling  and  thrilling  with  the  madness  strange, 

By  all  the  sea-maid's  wondrous  charms  enthralled, 

Upon  the  rocking  prow  methought  I  sprang, 

And  cast  upon  that  form  and  face  divine, 

Like  carven  ivory  ten  times  purified, 

A  single  glance ;  then,  in  wild  ecstasy, 

I  leaped  into  the  siren's  cold  embrace 

And  felt  the  dead,  white  arms  around  me  close. 

Down,  down  into  the  dark,  cold  waves  we  sank, 
The  icy  arms  close  clinging  round  my  neck 
And  dragging  me  into  the  lowest  depths, 
Like  tons  of  solid  lead  !     A  roaring  noise, 
Like  that  of  countless  mighty  deluges, 
Throbbed  in  my  ears  and  beat  upon  my  brain  ; 
Countless  electric  flashes  seared  my  eyes 
With  fiery  sparkles  of  tormenting  pain, 
And  all  my  form  was  racked  with  agony. 

I  felt  my  prisoned  spirit  in  me  swell, 

And  beat,  and  struggle  to  burst  through  the  bars 

That  shut  it  in  my  body.     Like  the  throes 


A  Sea  Dream. 

Within  some  vast  volcano's  fiery  heart, 
When  the  imprisoned  lava  rolls  and  heaves, 
And  struggles  to  burst  forth  into  the  light, 
E'en  so  the  soul  within  me  hemmed  and  pent 
Labored  to  burst  its  bonds  and  lose  itself 
In  the  surrounding  and  engulfing  sea. 
One  awful  throe  of  untold  agony 
Wrenched  soul,  and  brain,  and  body  at  the  last, 
And  then  oblivion  came.     I  knew  no  more. 

When  mind  and  sense  returned,  I  was  within 
The  sea-maid's  bower  beneath  the  sounding  deep, 
'Mid  sweeter  things  than  mortals  dream  of  heaven. 
One  mighty  wave  of  wondrous  ecstasy 
Filled  soul  and  body, — and  I  woke  to  earth. 

No  human  art  can  picture  what  I  saw ; 
No  human  tongue  can  tell  what  I  have  known, 
Or  mind  conceive  it  that  has  known  it  not ; 
But  that  brief  moment  in  the  siren's  cell, 
Those  sounds  my  dreaming  ears  there  listened  to, 
Those  sights  I  saw,  those  feelings  that  were  mine 
Were  almost  worth  eternities  of  pain. 
And  when  I  woke  I  wept  to  dream  again. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  jsf,  1886. 


io  Tossed  on  the  Tide. 


TOSSED  ON  THE  TIDE. 

Oh,  the  swift  hours  of  the  time  that  is  nearing, 
Broad  as  the  heavens  and  deep  as  the  sea  ! 

What,  as  they  sweep  on,  to  me  are  they  bearing  ? 
Lift  up  the  veil  of  the  future  for  me  ! 

Out  of  eternity,  into  it  going, 

Stopping  not,  staying  not,  years  ever  flee, 
What  on  the  tide  of  time's  cycles  onflowing, 

Out  of  the  darkness,  is  coming  to  me  ? 

I  can  but  wait,  whether  surges  surround  me, 
Lashed  by  the  tempests  of  sorrow  and  woe, 

Or,  in  prosperity,  rippling  around  me 

In  pleasure's  sunlight,  they  peacefully  flow. 

I  cannot  tell  !  -'Mid  the  flotsam  and  jetsam, 

Tide-tossed,  dead  men  and  wreck-splinters  may  lie, 

Pearls  and  pink  shells — happy  is  he  who  gets  them 
Flung  at  his  feet  as  the  time-waves  go  by  ! 

I  cannot  know  ;  but  the  current  unsparing 
Something  is  bringing  that  eyes  cannot  see, 

And  on  its  bosom  me,  too,  it  is  bearing 
On  to  a  grave  that  is  waiting  for  me. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  April  jth,  1889. 


Then  find  Noiv.  1 1 


THEN  AND  NOW. 

Lap,  lap,  lap, 
Slid  the  ripples  along  the  beach 

One  day  in  the  long  ago, 
Caressing  each  wave-worn  stone, 
And  their  silvery  monotone 
Seemed  burdened  with  mystic  speech. 
With  the  tale  that  they  seemed  to  tell, 
I  felt  hope's  ecstatic  swell, 
Hearing  not  in  that  ceaseless  chord 

The  throb  of  woe. 

Lap,  lap,  lap, 
Glide  the  waves  on  the  beach  to-day 

As  they  did  in  the  long  ago, 
But  joy  in  my  breast  is  dead  ; 
The  peace  of  the  past  is  fled, 
Return  now  it  never  may  ; 
And  in  ocean's  vast  chocd  sublime, 
.    Sounding  on  till  the  end  of  time, 
Hope  dwells  not ;  I  only  hear 
The  throb  of  woe. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  ijt/t,  1887. 


12  A    Winters  Day. 


A  WINTER'S  DAY. 

The  sunlight  in  golden  gleaming 

Falls  bright  on  the  drifted  snow, 
Like  a  heavenly  radiance  streaming 

All  over  the  world  below. 
Skies  blue  as  in  summer's  brightness 

Smile  down  on  a  sea  as  blue, 
While  mantles  of  silvery  whiteness 

The  evergreens  dark  burst  through. 

A  picture  to  men  is  given 

Unasked,  and  before  them  lies, 
Fair,  pure  as  the  scenes  of  heaven 

Beheld  by  the  angels'  eyes  ; 
And  as  beautiful  hues  are  blending, 

In  the  clear  of  the  winter  air, 
As  the  tints  in  the  world  unending 

Which  fields  of  the  ransomed  wear. 

If  things  were  as  lovely  ever 
As  on  this  most  perfect  day, 

How  gladly  would  men  forever 

In  this  beautiful,  bright  world  stay  ! 


A    Winter's  Day.  13 

But  storms  and  corruptions  center 
In  the  beautiful  world  we  love, 

So  we  turn  where  they  never  enter, 
To  the  lovelier  land  above. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Dec.  2^rd,  1886. 


1 4  Driftwood. 


DRIFTWOOD. 

There's  a  ripple  of  shade  on  the  ocean, 
With  its  gleaming  expanse  of  blue, 

Though  a  glitter  of  golden  radiance  falls 
The  cloudless  empyrean  through, 

And  the  shores  of  the  grand  old  Atlantic  rise 
Sun-kissed  in  each  glorious  hue. 

There's  a  hint  in  the  scene  of  beauty 

Of  a  horror  that  rests  unsaid, 
Strange,  vague  and  nameless,  that  darkly  hangs 

O'er  the  loveliness  calm  outspread, 
Like  a  chilling  blast  from  the  world  of  souls, 

A  message  from  some  one  dead. 

It  is  only  a  broken  splinter, 

Wave-worn,  on  the  storm-vexed  beach, 
Yet  what  a  tale  of  despair  and  death 

Could  that  sorrow-fraught  fragment  teach  ! 
What  memories  of  the  past  divulge, 

Had  it  sense  and  the  power  of  speech  ! 


Driftwood.  1 5 

For  it  came  from  a  foundered  vessel, 

Bitten  deep  by  the  ragged  teeth 
Of  a  sunken  reef,  that  in  ambush  lay 

In  a  fleecy  and  foam-white  wreath, 
While  the  storm-winds  howled  and  the  breakers  roared 

O'er  the  pitiless  rocks  beneath. 

And  the  proud  ship  went  to  pieces 

And  vanished  forevermore, 
While  the  wild  waves  swallowed  the  helpless  crew 

And  the  hopes  and  plans  she  bore  ; 
And  the  only  trace  that  remains  to-day 

Is  a  splinter  upon  the  shore, 

And  the  heart-aches  and  bitter  anguish 

Of  the  living  who  mourn  the  lost 
Who  sailed  from  home  on  the  dancing  waves 

That  by  them  might  ne'er  be  crossed, 
Little  dreaming  soon  on  a  wrathful  tide 

Would  their  lifeless  forms  be  tossed. 

And  this  shivered  and  splintered  timber 

Seems  to  tell  of  that  horror  still, 
And  the  hopes  and  plans  that  were  quenched  for  aye 

.  When  those  hearts'  hot  blood  grew  chill. 
Oh,  a  sad,  sad  thing  on  the  lonely  beach 

Is  this  mark  of  the  tempest's  will  ! 

But  far  sadder  are  shattered  fragments 
Tossed  up  by  the  sea  of  life, 


1 6  Drifavood. 

That  tell  of  hopes  and  ambitions  high 
Ground  up  in  its  storm  and  strife, 

All  crippled  and  crushed  by  a  cruel  chance 
When  misfortune's  winds  were  rife. 

For  the  heart  that  conceives  a  fancy 

Is  torn  when  it  comes  to  naught. 
More  bitter  than  death  is  a  hope  destroyed, 

Life's  venture  by  shipwreck  caught. 
Better  die  than  witness  the  loss  of  all 

While  the  soul  is  with  feeling  fraught. 

So  of  all  things,  the  saddest 

Are  the  wrecks  on  the  shores  of  time, 

Where  the  splinters  of  fleets  we  fondly  launched, 
Our  works  that  we  deemed  sublime, 

All  shattered,  are  flung  by  the  tide  of  life 
At  our  feet  as  the  billows  chime. 

For  we  feel  that  the  fond  hopes  broken 

Are  wrecks  to  us  evermore  ; 
Our  dearest  dreams  of  delight  destroyed, 

Driftwood  on  a  sounding  shore  ; 
Like  the  splinter  flung  on  the  lonely  beach 

Where  the  waves  of  Atlantic  roar. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  April  2qth,  1889. 


Out  on  the  Sea.  17 


OUT  ON  THE  SEA. 

Out  on  the  heaving  sea 

The  dark  clouds  lower  ;  the  thick  mists  hide  the  land 
Where  billows  hiss  and  foam  upon  the  strand ; 
Through  the  dark  shadows  drives  the  rushing  hail ; 
Far  flies  the  spray  upon  the  howling  gale  ; 
Darkness,  destruction,  chaos,  blend  to-night ; 
Death  is  abroad  in  all  his  withering  blight. 
God  pity  men,  whoever  they  may  be, 

Out  on  the  sounding  sea  ! 

Down  to  the  somber  sea 
No  ray  of  starlight  reaches  ;  all  is  dark, 
And  inky  blackness  wraps  each  struggling  bark ; 
From  wrecks  the  waves  are  bearing  men  away, 
While  their  last  dirge  the  winds  and  waters  play. 
A  thing  of  terror  is  a  night  like  this, 
For  many  a  warm  lip  shall  the  surges  kiss, 
And  many  a  mortal  sink  and  cease  to  be, 

Out  on  the  wrathful  sea. 

Yet,  on  the  changeful  sea 

The  morrow's  sun  may  shine  out  bright  and  clear, 
All  trace  of  nature's  anger  disappear, 
Brightness  and  beauty  rest  upon  the  wave 


1 8  Out  on  the  Sea. 

In  which  to-night  so  many  find  a  grave ; 
For  nights  of  horror  bring  days  clear  and  warm, 
As  storm  e'er  follows  calm,  and  calm  the  storm. 
Above  the  clouds  will  brightness  ever  be, 
And  sometime  reach  the  sea. 

Out  on  the  sea  of  life 

Are  storm  and  darkness,  wreck  and  blackest  night, 
And  through  the  deep  gloom  shines  no  cheering  light. 
Some  live  the  storm  out,  some  are  wrecked  ere  day, 
And  leave  no  ripple  where  they  sink  for  aye ; 
Yet  o'er  the  clouds  do  light  and  glory  pour, 
And  those  not  whelmed  shall  greet  their  rays  once  more. 
Heaven's  radiance  shall  break  through  and  calm  the  strife 

Of  the  great  sea  of  life. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Dec.  24^/1,  1886. 


Disappointed,  1 9 


DISAPPOINTED. 

Cold  blew  the  storm-wind  from  over  the  ocean, 

Darkly  the  clouds  settled  down  on  the  sea, 
Wild  waves  were  rolling  in  ceaseless  commotion, 

Flinging  the  spray  high  in  air  in  their  gle'e. 
Lifeless  and  bare  were  the  smooth,  sandy  reaches, 

Save  for  the  sea-weed  thrown  up  by  the  tide, 
And  the  wreck-splinters  strewn  on  the  sea  beaches, 

Scorned  by  the  waves  they  no  longer  might  ride. 

Cold  was  the  sea-shore  on  which  I  was  sitting, 

Cold  was  my  heart  as  I  viewed  the  dark  scene. 
Gloomy  my  glances  from  wave  to  wave  flitting 

As  the  bleak  shore,  the  cold  sky  and  sea  green ; 
Fitting  the  hour  and  the  scene  for  my  feeling, 

The  darksome  sky  arfd  the  sea  uncontrolled, 
For  disappointment  life's  brightness  was  stealing 

My  heart,  like  the  landscape,  was  gloomy  and  cold. 

Changed  is  the  weather,  but  not  the  old  feeling, 

Changed  is  the  time,  but  my  heart  is  the  same, 
For  disappointment's  wounds  are  long  in  healing, 

The  mind's  sky  cleared  not  when  the  earth's  sky-change 
came  ; 


2O  Disappointed. 

And,  like  old  Ocean,  whose  waves  are  still  swelling, 
Or  like  the  rugged  and  storm-beaten  shore, 

My  soul  on  crushed  hopes  forever  is  dwelling. 
Dark,  cold  and  gloomy,  unchanged  evermore. 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  Nov.  22nd,  1885. 


The  Mvstic  Curtain.  21 


THE  MYSTIC  CURTAIN. 

We  stood  together  on  a  bare,  cold  hill, 
My  friend  and  I,  while,  in  the  broken  west, 
The  orb  of  day  was  sinking  to  his  death 
Among  the  dark  cloud-shadows.     Round  about 
The  wind  blew  chill,  and  with  its  moaning  voice 
Betold  the  coming  storm.     Far,  far  away, 
The  throbbing  ocean  sobbed  aloud  in  woe, 
Seeing  the  struggles  of  the  drowning  sun, ' 
That  faintly  swam  the  damp  and  dismal  rack 
That  choked  his  sinking,  dying  form  in  night. 

We  talked  of  many  things  upon  the  hill, 

The  happy,  happy  days  forever  past, 

To  come  again  no  more ;  the  future  hours, 

Big  with  the  promise  of  things  yet  to  be, 

Although  they  then  were  not ;  ourselves,  our  hopes, 

Our  plans  and  fears  ;   and  all  the  countless  thoughts, 

The  "long,  long  thoughts  "  of  youth  came  home  to  us, 

As  by  us  there  the  rising  storm-wind  sighed, 

And  clouds  and  darkness  settled  round  about, 

And  daylight  died. 


22  The  Mystic  Curtain. 

And  then,  adown  the  hill, 
My  friend  passed  on  and  left  me  there  alone. 
I  heard  his  footsteps  ring  upon  the  stones 
As  with  firm  tread  he  vanished  ;  and  between 
Myself  and  him  the  mists  and  shadows  fell, 
And  all  was  dark.     A  cloudy  curtain  dropped, 
And  thus  we  were  divided  ;  and  the  wind 
Still  louder  moaned,  and  louder  sobbed  the  sea 
Upon  the  distant  beaches  hid  from  sight 
By  the  same  misty  folds ; — and  the  sun  set. 

No  thought  prophetic  stirred  my  inmost  soul 
With  hint  of  what  drew  near,  as  from  the  hill 
I  wended  homeward  through  the  night  alone. 
Unseen,  unrecognized,  another  veil 
Had  wrapped  about  my  friend  and  hidden  him. 
Another  curtain  than  the  mist  and  cloud 
Was  falling  in  between  him  and  myself, 
The  dark,  strange  .curtain  that  at  some  time  drops 
Behind  each  mortal,  whose  fringe  scatters  tears, 
And  pain,  and  heart-aches,  and  whose  gloomy  folds 
Are  waved  and  shaken  by  the  breath  of  sighs 
And  moans  of  anguish.     This  divided  us, 
Death's  mantle  dark  : — we  never  met  again. 

Between  us  two  that  curtain  hangs  to-day 
And  hides  him  from  my  eyes,  as  on  that  night 
The  clouds  and  darkness  shut  him  from  my  gaze. 
I  cannot  see  him,  yet  I  know,  afar, 


The  Mystic  Curtain. 

Somewhere  beyond  the  mists,  the  friend  awaits 

Who  stepped  into  the  shadows  and  was  gone. 

I  may  not  raise  the  veil,  at  least  not  yet, 

But  some  day  will  my  hand  the  curtain  lift 

That  us  so  long  has  parted.     I  shall  go 

The  path  that  my  friend  traveled  years  agone  ; 

I  too  shall  know  all  there  is  yet  to  know  ; 

Into  the  shadows  I  shall  also  pass 

From  watching  eyes,  while  just  behind  me  falls 

The  mystic  veil,  and  all  the  world  grows  dark, — 

And  the  sun  sets. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  March  2jrd,  r888. 


24  Over  the  Waves. 


OVER  THE  WAVES. 

Over  the  wavelets  dancing  bright, 

Out  on  their  missions  the  white  sails  go, 
Fair  in  the  radiant  autumn  light, 

While  sunbeams  glitter  and  breezes  blow. 
The  blue  swells,  flecked  with  the  feathery  foam 

Flung  off  by  the  sharp  keels  cleaving  through, 
Close  in  behind  as  they  ride  from  home 

Underneath  a  glorious  sky  as  blue. 

Yet  storms  will  come,  and  the  waves  roll  high, 

That  swell  so  gently  around  to-day, 
And  brave  boats  under  their  crests  shall  lie, 

That  now  so  gallantly  speed  away. 
But  some  bright  harbors  afar  shall  gain, 

Beyond  my  vision,  I  know  not  where, 
Far  over  the  treacherous,  heaving  main 

Now  flashing,  gleaming  serenely  fair. 

I  would  that  in  one  I  might  drift  away 
From  toil,  and  trouble,  and  vexing  care, 

Forever  from  all  things  around  to-day, 
Away,  I  know  not,  I  care  not  where  ! 


Over  the  Waves.  25 

It  is  perfect  now,  though  a  storm  be  near  ; 

Then  why  prepare  for  the  tempest's  strife  ? 
Let  it  break  unheeded  !     I've  more  to  fear 

From  coming  storms  on  the  sea  of  life. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Sept.  jjth,  1888. 


26  Suicide. 


SUICIDE. 

Only  a  plunge  in  the  dark,  cold  lake, 

'Neath  the  black  and  the  murky  sky, 
To  the  sleep  of  death  from  which  none  awake, 
Down  under  the  ripples  that  curl  and  break 

As  the  storm-wind  rushes  by  ! 

Only  a  leap  from  the  bold  steep  shore, 

In  the  dusk  of  the  gloomy  eve, 
And  the  griefs  and  sorrows  of  earth  are  o'er, 
Life's  drama  enacted  forevermore, 

And  the  known  shores  of  time  I  leave  ! 

One  leap,  and  the  fever  of  life  shall  end 

In  the  shame  of  a  suicide's  death, 
And  the  night  of  oblivion  shall  descend 
On  the  hate  of  foe  and  the  scorn  of  friend, 

With  the  last  gasp  of  gurgling  breath  ! 

What  a  change  from  the  glory  of  youth's  bright  morn 

Is  its  horrible,  ghastly  end  ! 
From  beauty  and  promise  of  life's  fair  dawn 
To  suicide's  death  and  the  harsh  world's  scorn  ! 

Light  and  dark  threads  of  destiny  blend. 


Suicide.  27 

I  little  thought  in  the  days  of  youth 

That  my  bright  dreams  would  come  to  this  ; 

That  my  visions  of  joy,  and  love,  and  truth 

Would  turn  to  sin  and  despair  and  ruth, 
And  end  in  the  cold  wave's  kiss. 

To  think  of  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood, 

Once  formed  by  the  hand  of  God, 
Lying  low  to  rot  on  a  bed  of  mud, 
Preyed  on  by  the  fishes  that  swim  the  flood, 

By  the  worms  and  the  shell-fish  gnawed  ! 

Or  rising  upward  to  float  away, 

Once  more  in  the  sunlight  bright, 
Mutilated  by  creatures  that  round  it  play, 
A  horrible  wreck  in  the  light  of  day, 

A  swollen  and  putrid  sight ! 

'Tis  a  plunge  from  life  and  light  into — what  ? 

Into  nothingness,  heaven,  or  hell  ? 
Through  the  portal  death's  curtains  forever  shut, 
The  mystery  of  which  the  earth  knoweth  not, 

And  which  no  soul  comes  back  to  tell. 

Any  fate  is  better  than  life  of  shame, 

Forsaken  and  shunned  by  all, 
Sneered,  scoffed  at,  taunted  with  ruined  name, 
Lost  soul  and  body,  deep  stained  in  fame 

By  a  weak  and  a  sinful  fall ! 


28  Suicide. 

Down,  down  to  my  death  in  the  waters  deep, 

'Neath  the  black  and  the  ice-cold  wave, 
To  lie  in  the  slime  where  the  foul  worms  creep, 
And  the  hungry  fishes  around  me  sweep, 
I  spring  to  a  watery  grave  ! 

O,  dark  lake,  take  me  and  hide  for  aye 

From  every  mortal  eye  ! 
Conceal  me  closely  from  light  of  day  ! 
Till  time  and  eternity  pass  away 

Let  me  'neath  thy  surface  lie  ! 

.O,  roaring  storm -wind,  O,  wild  night-blast, 

For  the  last  time  I  hear  your  dirge  ! 
O,  darkness,  O,  rain-cloud  down-settling  fast, 
Good  bye  !  for  my  wrecked  life  is  ever  past  ! 
Enfold  me,  O,  billowy  surge  ! 

Close  o'er  me,  ye  waters,  and  quench  my  life, 

And  of  my  sad  fate  be  dumb  ! 
Farewell,  ye  elements'  fitful  strife, 
With  my  soul's  wild  bitterness  seeming  rife  ! 

God,  forgive  !  Lake,  receive  me  !  I  come  ! 

West  Mount  Vernon,  Me.,  Aug.  4th,  f88j. 


Whose  ?  29 


WHOSE? 

There's  a  glitter  that  lies  on  the  water, 

There's  a  glimmer  of  gold  on    high, 
As  the  sunbeams  stream  o'er  the  dancing  waves 

From  the  depths  of  the  dark  blue  sky  ; 
And  the  dimpling  depths  of  ocean, 

The  vault  of  the  vast  above, 
Shine  in  warmth  and  beauty  as  bright  as  spring's 

'Neath  the  glowing  sun's  touch  of  love. 

But  under  the  smiling  water 

Dead  forms  it  has  swallowed  lie, 
And  the  ghastly  faces  it  blanched  for  aye 

With  sightless  eyes  stare  on  high ; 
And  the  blue  of  the  sunlit  heavens, 

So  calmly,  serenely  fair, 
Is  cleft  by  the  wings  of  the  viewless  shades 

Of  the  lost  ones  hovering  there. 

And  this  sunlight  and  warmth  are  fleeting, 

For  winter  approaches  fast, 
And  the  beauty  that  lies  upon  all  to-day 

Is  changing  and  cannot  last. 


30  Whose  ? 

The  waters  will  rave  in  fury, 

The  heavens  will  scowl  on  high, 
Other  dead  eyes — whose  ? — from  the  waves  shall  gaze, 

Other  shades  wing  the  darksome  sky. 

Portland,  Me.,  Nov.  /7th,  1888. 


With  the  Tide.  3 1 


WITH  THE  TIDE. 

I  am  floating  down  the  river,  drifting  swiftly  with  the  tide ; 
On  forever  toward  the  ocean  do  the  mighty  waters  glide, 
And  some  time,  though  when  I  know  not,  I  shall  reach  the 

boundless  sea, 
And  I  patiently  am  waiting  till  that  blessed  time  shall  be. 

Sometimes  clouds  hang  dark  above  me  and  the  sky  is  over 
cast, 

But  I  feel  that  through  the  shadows  will  the  sunlight  break 
at  last  ; 

And,  though  mists  may  gather  ro"und  me,  still  I  float  upon 
my  way, 

For  I  know  that  just  before  me  heaven's  brightest  sunbeams 
play. 

Calmly,  trustingly  I'm  drifting,  though  the  way  I  cannot 

see, 
For  I  know  the  shades,  dividing,  will  disclose  a  course  for 

me. 
All  upon  this  stream  have  floated,  and,  though  it  be  wrapped 

in  night, 
I  can  enter  where  He  entered,  and  shall  find  that  all  is 

right. 


32  With  the  Tide. 

Though  the  sunlight  smile  around  me  or  the  skies  above 

me  lower, 

Still  I  feel  that  I  am  nearer  to  the  haven  on  the  shore ; 
For  I  know,  somewhere  before  me,  on  the  border  of  the  sea, 
There's  a  safe  and  quiet  harbor  opened  wide  to  welcome 

me. 

I  am  waiting  till  I  reach  it ;  though  it  may  be  near  or  far, 
Yet  some  time  the  tide  will  bear  me  safely  o'er  the  harbor 

bar  ; 
Light  will  conquer  gloom  forever  when  I  reach  that  haven 

blest ; 
There  some  day,  my  drifting  ended,  I  shall  enter  into  rest. 

Port  Republic,  AT.  /.,  Feb.  qt/i,  1886. 


Undercurrent.  3  3 


UNDERCURRENT. 

Dancing  bubbles  float  on  the  surface 

With  the  hues  of  a  rainbow  bright, 
But  the  dark,  cold  waters  rush  underneath 

In  silent,  resistless  might. 
Cloud-crests,  by  the  sunbeams  gilded, 

Dark,  somber,  float  in  mid-air  ; 
And,  hidden  under  a  lightsome  guise, 

Oft  rankles  a  deep  despair. 

Bright  faces,  the  seeming  gayest, 

Have  sorrows  concealed  below, 
And  the  fairest  flowers  in  the  fields  of  speech 

May  bloom  on  a  root  of  woe  ; 
And  in  every  burst  of  music, 

Each  thrilling  and  joyous  strain, 
The  ears  fine-strung  catch  an  undertone, 

The  throb  of  a  hidden  pain. 

The  laugh  and  the  jest  will  circle, 

And  the  gleam  of  the  smile  go  round, 

While  the  world  knows  not  of  the  smart  concealed 
The  sob  in  the  laughter  drowned  ; 


34 


Undercurrent. 

For  sorrow  and  joy  are  sisters  ; 

Only  happiness  oft  appears 
When  the  rippling  rills  of  deceptive  mirth 

Burst  fresh  from  the  fount  of  tears. 
Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  qth,  i88g. 


Drifting.  35. 


DRIFTING. 

I  am  drifting  down  the  river, 

Ever  drifting  toward  the  sea, 
Never  stopping,  never  staying, 
Onward  still  with  no  delaying, 
Past  the  beacon  lamps  that  quiver  \ 
Drifting  onward  ceaselessly. 

Never  will  the  tide  returning 
Bear  me  backward  to  the  shore, 

Whence  I  floated  in  the  dawning 

Of  youth's  bright  and  rosy  morning  ; 

From  it  still,  though  for  it  yearning, 
I  am  drifting  evermore. 

It  is  on  Time's  restless  river 
I  am  floating  toward  the  sea  ; 

Past  all  known  scenes  quickly  drifting,. 
Under  skies  forever  shifting  ; 

Present  hours  receding  ever 
Drifting  to  futurity. 


36  Drifting. 

On  from  youth  till  life  is  ended 
Ebbs  the  tide  that  knows  no  flow  ; 

Sweeps  the  restless,  rushing  river, 

At  last  whelming  all  forever  ; 

Over  countless  life-wrecks  blended 
Still  the  mighty  waters  go. 

Hurried  onward  with  the  rushing 
Of  the  current  toward  the  sea, 

Borne  from  much-loved  scenes  and  places, 

From  the  dear  familiar  faces, 

Still  I  ride  the  waters  gushing 
Onward  to  the  great  To-Be. 

Graves  of  hopes  and  dead  ambitions 
Line  the  shores  by  which  I  sweep, 
Leaving  loving  friends  forever, 
Closest  ties  the  currents  sever, 
Ever  on  with  swift  transitions 
To  the  boundless,  roaring  deep. 

Not  a  helm  to  guide  the  motion 
Though  the  skies  be  overcast, 
Though  unknown  the  rocks  surrounding, 
Sand-bars,  whirlpools,  reefs  abounding, 
Helpless  I  drift  toward  the  ocean, 
While  the  tempest  gathers  fast. 


Drifting. 

Wreck  may  come,  for,  darkly  lying, 

Clouds  and  shadows  wrap  the  wave. 
In  the  future's  misty  distance, 
Dangers  beyond  man's  resistance 
May  o'erwhelm,  and  storm-winds  flying, 
Howl  a  dirge  above  my  grave. 

Now  I  hear  the  breakers  dashing, 
And  1  near  the  boundless  sea  ! 

Shores  of  Time  are  left  forever  ! 

All  the  ties  of  Living  sever, 

And  I  see  the  billows  flashing 
In  the  vast  Eternity  ! 

Long  Islam!,  Me.,  Jan.  141/1,  1885. 


38  Night  by  the  Seaside. 


NIGHT  BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

I  walked  the  shore  'mid  the  billows'  roar, 
'Neath  the  black  clouds  whirled  on  high, 

While  the  fine,  sharp  hail  in  the  howling  gale 
Went  dashing  and  driving  by. 

The  spray  flew  high  to  the  stormy  sky 

From  the  black  and  dripping  rocks ; 
Each  wave's  rebound  with  a  thunder  sound 

Told  the  power  of  the  ocean-shocks. 

The  sharp  sleet  hissed  through  the  driving  mist 

As  it  plunged  in  the  heaving  sea, 
And  the  green  waves  broke  in  a  spumy  smoke, 

That  wild  waves  drove  to  lee. 

I  strained  my  sight  through  the  falling  night, 

Where  the  white-capped  surges  tore 
By  the  rocks  around  with  their  foam-wreaths  crowned, 

On  their  way  to  the  snow-clad  shore. 

A  dark  shade  gleamed  where  the  brown  weeds  streamed, 

Like  a  sea-maid's  floating  hair  ; 
From  its  wild  mates  lost,  a  lone  sea-bird  tossed 

'Twixt  the  waves  and  the  dusky  air. 


Night  by  the  Seaside.  39 

All  the  scene  was  rife  with  the  fiercest  strife 

When  night  settled  o'er  the  main, 
As,  •lashed  by  the  hail  and  the  roaring  gale, 

The  billows  rolled  back  again. 

Yet  the  war  around,  and  the  stunning  sound, 

And  the  chaos  of  sea  and  air, 
Left  a  calm  behind  in  my  restless  mind 

And  banished  the  thoughts  of  care. 

The  elements'  fight  on  that  stormy  night 

Was  awful,  and  yet  sublime, 
And  that  winter  scene  on  the  ocean  green 

I  shall  think  of  in  future  time. 

All  things  have  changed  since  that  beach  I  ranged ; 

That  night  will  ne'er  come  again, 
And  nevermore  shall  I  pace  the  shore 

With  the  thoughts  that  I  cherished  then. 

That  wild  night  blast  is  forever  past, 

And  memories  only  left ; 
That  time  is  fled  and  its  moments  dead, 

And  the  hopes  I  then  had  are  reft. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  17 th,  1885. 


4-O  Written  in  Sand. 


WRITTEN  IN  SAND. 

Where  the  ripples  break  on  the  shining  strand, 

On  the  quiet  shore  of  an  ocean  bay, 
Written  deep  in  the  silvery  sand, 

The  name  of  some  thoughtless  rambler  lay. 
Bold  and  firm  was  the  writing  fair, 

Every  letter  distinct  and  plain  ; 
Someone  carelessly  traced  it  there, 

Then  wandered  far  from  the  spot  again. 

There  lay  the  work  of  the  idler's  hand, 

Graven  deep  on  the  ocean  shore, 
Till  a  blue  wave,  kissing  the  shining  sand, 

Left  it  as  smooth  as  it  was  before. 
Many  are  striving  to  write  their  name 

Where  the  waves  of  time  will  forever  flow, 
And  trying  to  build  for  themselves  a  fame 

To  last  while  the  ages  shall  come  and  go. 

Thus  kings  and  princes  their  names  engrave 
On  the  sands  of  time  ere  they  pass  away ; 

The  shore  is  swept  by  oblivion's  wave, 

And  their  work  is  gone  from  the  world  for  aye. 


Written  in  Sand.  41 

Thus  poets  and  painters  will  strive  to  win 
A  deathless  fame  that  shall  always  last,  • 

But  the  restless  waves  of  time  rolling  in 
Soon  bear  them  into  forgotten  past. 

The  soldier  writes  with  his  bloody  hand 

His  name  in  letters  both  bold  and  clear  ; 
The  surf  of  forgetfulness  sweeps  the  strand, 

And  the  name  of  the  hero  must  disappear. 
And  all  who  strive  for  a  deathless  fame, 

A  record  to  last  while  the  world  shall  stand, 
Are  only  trying  to  write  their  name 

On  a  changing  tablet  of  shifting  sand. 

And  this  is  the  value  of  earth's  renown  ; 

The  rich  and  mighty,  the  proud  and  great, 
Their  names  and  actions  are  writing  down 

To  be  swept  away  by  remorseless  fate. 
The  proudest  record  the  world  can  show 

Is  but  a  record  inscribed  in  sand, 
Eternity's  waves,  in  their  ceaseless  flow, 

Will  smooth  forever  time's  changing  strand. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Jan.  loth,  i88j. 


WOODLAND  WHISPERS. 


LITTLE   SWEETHEARTS. 

Over  my  memory  softly  are  stealing 

Thoughts  of  a  day  in  the  bright,  happy  past, 
And  a  half-pleasant,  half-sorrowful  feeling 

From  the  moist  eye  bids  the  tears  trickle  fast. 
Fondly  I  think  of  a  day  gone  forever ; 

Of  what  has  been  but  can  nevermore  be ; 
And  in  my  dreams  and  my  reveries  ever, 

From  the  dead  past  comes  this  picture  to  me  : 

Two  little  sweethearts  with  bright,  happy  faces, 

On  a  fresh  hillside  where  strawberries  grow, 
Plucking  the  red  fruit  from  green  hiding-places, 

Lightsome  and  free  as  the  breezes  that  blow. 
Fair  is  the  face  of  the  bright  little  maiden, 

Hair  like  the  sunbeams  and  eyes  like  the  sky, 
Lips  smiling  over  the  basket  fruit-laden, 

And  the  boy  walking  beside  her  is I. 

Children  we  were  when  we  wandered  together, 
With  our  hearts  filled  with  a  warm,  childish  love, 

Calm  and  serene  as  the  bright  summer  weather, 
Pure  as  the  skies  that  were  arching  above. 


Little  Sweetheart.  45 

But  I  soon  lost  my  sweet  hope  and  my  treasure  ; 

Joys  that  I  dreamed  of  will  ne'er  be  my  own, 
For  the  bright  presence  that  made  life  a  pleasure 

Left  me  to  tread  in  the  dark  pathway  alone. 

No  more  to  me  come  the  hopes  that  then  found  me, 

On  that  bright  day  in  the  dim  long  ago. 
All  the  pure  joys  that  then  clustered  around  me 

Soon  were  swept  from  me  by  time  in  its  flow. 
Now,  with  hair  whitened  by  hours  in  their  flying, 

Sadly  I  wander  life's  desert  alone ; 
My  little  sweetheart  has  long  years  been  lying 

In  her  last  rest  'neath  the  moss-covered  stone. 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  Jan.  2ist,  1886. 


46  Woodland  Whispers. 


WOODLAND   WHISPERS. 

The  boughs  of  the  woodland  arches  thrill  at  the  touch  of 

the  unseen  breeze, 
And  a  whisper  runs  through  the  cool  arcades  of  the  verdant 

and  murmuring  trees, 
And  the  trembling  spruce,  and  the  hemlock  dark,  and  the 

slim  fir's  tapering  spire 
Join  in  the  song  of  the  beech  and  birch  to  the  white  pine's 

quivering  lyre. 

Perchance  there  are  souls  in  the  woodland  kings  rooted 
deep  in  the  moldering  ground, 

And  the  ancient  monarchs,  chained  fast  so  long,  sigh  softly 
their  woes  profound, 

Sad  histories  of  a  past  long  dead,  vainly  striving  men's 
hearts  to  teach, 

Breathing  thoughts  ^and  feelings  of  other  days  in  a  half- 
articulate  speech. 

Or  the  fairies  and  dryads  may  haunt  them  still,  as  they  did 

in  the  years  of  old, 
Their  voices  blending  in  low,  sad  chime  as  they  sigh  for 

those  moments  told, 
And  the  golden  days  when  they  reigned  alone  in  the  leafy, 

bewildering  ways, 
Ere  Mammon-worship  and  skeptic   doubt   invaded    their 

ancient  maze. 


Woodland  Whispers.  47 

But  the  woodland  whispers,  those  forest  hymns,  are  thrill 
ing  with  mystic  speech, 

Unknown,  unnoticed  by  sordid  hearts  ;  the  poet's  alone 
they  reach ; 

And  even  he  with  the  tuneful  lips,  with  his  dreaming  and 
fine-strung  soul, 

Comprehends  but  part  of  the  wondrous  tale ;  no  mortal 
may  know  the  whole. 

'Tis   a   privilege   to  the  Muses'   sons  to  visit  the  sacred 

ground, 
Where,   leaf-crowned    monuments  of  the  past,   the  great 

trees  tower  around. 
With  their  murmuring  echoes  a  peace  profound  will  enter 

the  restless  mind, 
And  the  soothing  voices,  half-understood,  their  tenderness 

leave  behind. 

And  a  sweet  and  a  holy  task  it  is  grand  symphonies  to 

translate 
From  the  forest  language  to  mortal  speech ;  how  pleasing, 

and  yet  how  great  ! 
For  the  thoughts  half  caught,  and  the  songs  half  heard, 

and  the  mysteries  half  made  plain 
By  the  woodland  whispers  half-understood,   fairy  voices 

repeat  in  vain. 


48  Woodland  Whispers. 

Nature,  grand,  inspired,  the  poetic  source,  blame  not  if 

the  strain  be  weak, 
For  even  poets  can  catch  but  part  that  her  nymphs  of  the 

woodland  speak. 
Beauty,  grandeur,   tenderness,  all  are  there,  go  listen  and 

you  will  hear 
What  human  language  and  human  bards  are  powerless  to 

render  clear. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Aug.  loth,  1889. 


Alone  with  Nature.  49 


ALONE  WITH  NATURE. 

You  who  are  harrassed  by  the  cares  of  life, 
Confused  by  turmoil,  overcome  by  grief, 
Wearied  by  labor  and  weighed  down  by  pain, 
Uuntil  the  language  of  the  Great  Supreme 
Becomes  unknown  to  you,  forsake  the  world 
Of  bustling,  busy  striving  after  wealth, 
And  stand  alone  with  Nature.     There  will  come 
Home  to  your  heart  an  overpowering  sense 
Of  a  vast,  wonderful  Intelligence, 
That  underlies  and  rules  all  Nature's  works, 
Governs  all  things  by  wise  and  fixed  decrees, 
And  for  the  best ;  —  save  where  its  peaceful  law 
Is  turned  aside  by  reckless,  willful  man. 

Go,  stand,  as  I  have  stood,  before  a  storm, 
And  see  the  ragged,  night-black  clouds  rush  on 
Upon  the  howling  gale,  until  the  sun 
Is  blotted  out  of  heaven  and  all  is  gloom  ; 
Gaze  on  the  grove  of  silver  birches  tall, 
Slender  and  pliant,  in  their  robes  of  green,, 
And  see  them  rock  and  sway  in  rhythmic  grace 


50  Alone  with  Nature. 

Before  the  hurricane  that  bows  them  down  ; 
See  them  swing  back  and  forth  in  mystic  dance, 
In  unison  with  the  deep  monotone 
Of  the  oncoming  storm,  the  roaring  gale, 
The  rippling  patter  of  the  first  great  drops 
From  the  black  cloud,  and  with  the  thunder's  bass, 
To  the  great  orchestra,  while  o'er  the  scene 
The  lightning  flashes  its  electric  torch  ; 
And  if  the  sight  beget  in  you  no  thought 
.     Of  some  Supreme  that  rules  it  and  directs, 
If  the  grand  harmony  the  tempest  plays 
Suggest  not  to  your  mind  some  Power  beyond 
And  far  excelling  feeble  human  thought, 
Then  is  the  soul  within  you  numbed  and  dead. 

Go  look  at  eventide,  as  I  have  looked, 
Upon  some  bright  lake,  gleaming  like  a  shield 
Of  polished  silver  in  the  mellow  light 
That  waits  on  sunset.     See  its  surface  clear, 
Unrippled  by  a  single  dimpling  breeze, 
Throwing  back  perfect  pictures  of  the  woods 
That  line  its  shores  and  blaze  in  autumn  hues ; 
Not  such,  dull  shades  as  early  frosts  produce, 
But  glorious  colors  that  October  suns 
Bring  to  the  ripened  foliage,  gorgeous  tints 
Of  scarlet,  yellow,  amber,  russet,  gold, 
Brown,  buff  and  crimson,  mingled  with  the  green 
Of  pine  and  hemlock,  blended  with  a  skill 


Alone  luith  Nature.  5  i 

And  harmony  no  mortal  artist  e'er 

Had  power  to  copy.     And  more,  add  to  this 

The  bright  reflections  of  a  few  soft  clouds 

Floating  above,  in -skies  as  blue  and  clear 

As  maiden's  eyes  of  innocence  and  truth, 

With  borders  flushed  and  gilded  by  the  glance 

Still  cast  upon  them  by  the  hidden  sun. 

Soften  the  glowing  picture  by  the  shades 

Of  quiet  coves  and  bare  rocks,  dark  and  bold, 

And  silvery  places  where  no  image  rests, 

And,  -as  you  gaze  upon  the  beauteous  scene, 

If  you  then  feel  not  a  peace,  sweet,  divine, 

And  almost  know  the  thoughts  of  Nature's  heart, 

Then  is  your  soul  a  callous  one  indeed. 

Flee  to  the  woods  in  summer's  brightest  days, 
And  lie  upon  the  cool  earth  strewn  with  leaves, 
And  fallen  needles  that  a  year  now  dead 
Plucked  from  the  arrowy  pines,  that  tower  above, 
Like  giant  fingers,  mutely  pointing  out 
The  land  of  rest  that  waits  the  weary  soul, 
And  listen  to  the  cadence  of  the  breeze 
Murmuring  in  music  through  the  dark  green  boughs 
That  wave  and  toss  a  hundred  feet  on  high, 
Mingled  with  bursts  of  untaught  melody 
From  countless  birdlings  hidden  in  the  trees. 
See  the  bright  sunshine  glint  and  glance  in  gold, 
As  through  the  limbs  the  gentle  zephyrs  move, 


52  Alone  zvit/i  Nature. 

In  changeful  quiverings  to  the  earth  below, 

And  sensibilities  are  blunt  indeed, 

That,  drinking  in  the  grand  old  forest  hymn 

In  all  its  soothing  changes,  feel  no  hint 

Of  something  more  than  chance  that  does  it  all, 

And  pours  into  the  heart  its  restfulness. 

Or  stand  upon  some  rocky  headland  bold, 

That  gores  old  ocean's  side,  when  winter's  storms 

Are  thundering  around.     List  to  the  roar 

Of  mighty  waves  that  beat  upon  the  strand 

With  force  that  jars  and  shakes  the  solid  earth. 

See  the  white  spray  fly  mountain-high  above 

The  wet,  black  rocks  the  sea  attacks  in  vain  ; 

See  the  wild  billows  climb,  and  slip,  and  slide 

Round  the  rough  cliffs  that  hurl  them  back  again 

Upon  those  close  behind,  that  still  rush  on 

In  mad  succession  to  the  snow-clad  shore, 

While  sleet-balls  dart  down  from  the  bursting  .clouds, 

Hissing  into  the  boiling  sea  below, 

Whose  foam-flecked  waters  whelm  them  as  they  fall. 

Watch  the  lone  sea-bird  toss  upon  the  tide 

Between  the  green  waves  and  the  inky  air, 

Exulting  in  the  chaos  all  around. 

View  the  dark  kelp  and  rock-weed  stream  afar 

On  ocean's  throbbing  bosom,  while  beneath 

Great  Nature's  heart  heaves  with  the  heaving  sea, 

And  from  the  madly  warring  elements, 


Alone  with  Nature.  53 

The  lesson  of  their  one  vast  secret  learn, 
The  one  fact  that  all  nature  fain  would  teach  : 
It  was  not  chance  that  fashioned  all  things  thus. 

Go,  then,  when  weary,  worn  and  broken  down 
In  mind  or  body,  far  away  from  man, 
And  walk  alone  with  Nature.     Face  to  face 
With  her  commune,  and  gain  her  peace  and  rest. 
No  matter  when  or  where  you  seek  her  side, 
There's  beauty  wheresoe'er  she  can  be  found, 
.  At  whatsoever  time,     Through  ear  and  eye 
She  pours  her  rest  and  beauty  to  the  soul, 
And  cares  and  troubles  vanish.     Let  her  breathe 
Into  the  inmost  spirit  God's  own  peace. 
Filled  with  that  peace  and  beauty,  turn  again 
And  face  once  more  the  care  and  toil  of  life, 
With  health  and  strength  renewed  and  courage  fresh 
And  manfully  press  onward  to  the  gate 
That  leads  to  the  Hereafter.     Treasure  up 
And  store  away  within  your  inmost  heart 
The  silent  sermon  that  all  souls  might  feel, 
And,  bettered  for  this  life  and  that  to  come, 
Thank  God  with  Nature  you  have  been  alone. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  i^ih,  1887. 


54  -Nature's  Music. 


NATURE'S  MUSIC. 

Nature,  thy  great  heart  with  music  is  throbbing; 

In  all  thy  changes  thy  melodies  dwell, 
From  fairy  murmurs  of  light  summer  hours 

To  the  grand  chords  of  the  tempest's  wild  swell  ; 
And  to  the  soul-harp  in  unison  with  thee 

All  tones  unite  in  a  chorus  complete ; 
All  thy  sounds  blend  in  a  grand,  changing  anthem, 

All  thy  notes  melt  into  harmonies  sweet. 

Teach  me  the  wonderful  music,  O,  Nature, 

Breathed  by  the  numberless  children  of  thine  ; 
Teach  me  the  wild  and  sweet  song  of  the  birdling 

Hanging  a-swing  on  its  nest  in  the  vine  ; 
Teach  me  the  deep,  solemn  chant  of  the  ocean 

Rolling  its  waves  on  its  margin  of  sand 
In  its  calm  moments,  and,  roused  by  the  tempest, 

The  wondrous  swell  of  its  melody  grand. 

Teach  me  the  soothing  tune  in  the  low  murmur 

Of  the  light  zephyr,  sweet  minstrel  of  thine, 
Breathing  its  soul  in  musical  cadence 

To  the  soft  notes  of  the  harp  of  the  pine  ; 
Teach  me  the  rippling  and  silvery  music 

Of  the  streams  coursing  thy  valleys  along, 
The  quick  tattoo  of  the  midsummer  shower, 

The  thunder's  bass  to  thy  soul-stirring  song. 


Nature's  Music.  5  5 

Sing  to  me  ever,  O,  great  voice  of  Nature, 

Soothe  me  with  all  of  thy  numberless  chords  ; 
Whate'er  thy  mood,  there  is  harmony  ever 

In  all  the  sounds  which  thy  kingdom  affords. 
Breathe  on  my  spirit,  the  soul-harp  so  wondrous ; 

Set  in  vibration  each  quivering  string  ; 
Let  the  grand  psalm  throb  forever  within  me, 

While  in  accord  all  thy  melodies  ring. 

Port  Republic,  N.  /.,  Oct.  loth,  1886. 


56  Blasted, 


BLASTED. 

A  pine-tree  king  of  the  forest  stood 

And  basked  in  the  light  serene, 
High  rearing  above  all  its  brotherhood 

Its  dark  tower  of  glossy  green. 

A  man  stood  high  in  the  human  throng, 

A  king  of  the  sons  of  men 
By  right  of  mind  and  a  genius  strong, 

The  power  of  the  tongue  and  pen. 

But  storm-clouds  gathered  above  the  tree, 
And  the  lightning's  finger  of  flame 

Touched  its  leafy  crest  and  it  ceased  to  be, 
Save  the  wreck  of  a  giant  frame. 

And  passion  breathed  with  its  blasting  breath, 

The  blight  of  its  hot  desire ; 
The  strong  man  sank  to  the  caves  of  death 

At  the  touch  of  its  finger  of  fire. 

All  that  marks  the  tree  as  the  years  roll  on 
Is  a  stump  in  the  crumbling  ground, 

And  every  trace  of  the  man  is  gone, 
Save  a  moldering  churchyard  mound. 

North   Wayne,  Me.,  Nov.  jot/i,  1887. 


Maple  Leaves.  57 


MAPLE  LEAVES. 

Once  again  the  leaves  are  turning 

On  the  lofty  maple  trees, 
And  their  banners  bright  and  burning 

Wave  upon  the  autumn  breeze. 
Scarlet,  crimson,  brown  and  yellow 

Hues  on  every  hand  appear, 
Soon  to  sober  tints  to  mellow, 

Dying  with  the  dying  year. 

All  too  soon  is  summer  ended, 

And  the  summer's  light  and  bloom  ; 
All  too  soon  these  glories,  blended, 

Sere  and  dead,  in  winter's  tomb, 
The  boughs  will  leave  undefended, 

That  so  brilliantly  now  wave, 
And,  their  autumn  splendor  ended, 

Sink  forgotten  to  the  grave. 

Brightest  scenes  are  ever  fleetest, 

Fairest  flowers  soonest  die, 
Shortest  hours  are  ever  sweetest, 

Richest  hues  the  soonest  fly. 
Frosts  destroy  the  leaves  of  summer 

And  the  buds  we  hold  so  dear, 
And  that  swift  and  silent  comer, 

Death,  life's  frost,  is  ever  near. 


58  Maple  Leaves. 

'Tis  not  strange  those  flaming  glories 

Sadden  and  subdue  the  heart, 
For  how  many  dear  life-stories 

Close  when  summer  hours  depart ! 
Many  leave  our  side  forever 

When  the  maple's  sere  leaves  fall. 
'Tis  not  strange  that  dead  leaves  ever 

Bring  to  mind  the  shroud  and  pall. 

Meet  it  is  that  hours  of  sadness 

Come  with  autumn's  gorgeous  hues, 
And  those  tints  of  light  and  gladness 

Dim,  funeral  thoughts  infuse  ; 
For  those  leaves  so  bright  and  fleeting 

Soon  will  flutter,  dark  and  sere, 
O'er  the  tombs  of  hearts  now  beating 

And  the  cold  grave  of  the  year. 

Fort  Republic,  N.  /.,  Sept.  2oth,  1885. 


Tlie  Moon  and  the  Firefly.  59 


THE  MOON  AND  THE  FIREFLY. 

Down  in  the  grass  where  the  daisies  slept 
While  the  pearly  dewdrops  gleamed  around, 

From  blade  to  blossom  a  fire-fly  crept 

Like  a  living  spark  on  the  dark,  cool  ground. 

Humble  the  spot  where  the  insect  dwelt, 

And  of  little  use  all  that  he  could  do, 
Yet  well  contented  the  small  one  felt 

If  his  faint  light  flickered  the  whole  night  through. 

But  high  in  the  heavens  the  full  moon  rode, 
And  her  wondrous  radiance  shone  around, 

And  the  pale,  cold  splendor  that  from  her  flowed, 
The  faint,  fair  light  of  the  fire-fly  drowned. 

Abashed,  the  insect  then  crept  away 

Deep  under  the  grasses  and  flowerets  wild, 

But  the  moon's  light  sought  him  out  where  he  lay, 
And  her  pale,  fair  face  on  the  fire-fly  smiled. 

Of  his  humble  duty  he  thought  no  more, 
For  his  tiny  being  was  filled  with  love, 

And  he  cared  not  to  shine  as  he  had  before, 

For  he  saw  but  the  white  moon  that  shone  above. 


60  The  Moon  and  the  Firefly. 

Lured  on  by  her  cold  and  beautiful  smile, 
He  followed  along  till  the  dawn  of  day, 

With  a  wearying  pinion,  for  many  a  mile, 
Till  weak  and  helpless  at  last  he  lay. 

And  there  in  the  cold,  dim  morning  air, 

With  wings  all  broken  and  drenched  in  dew, 

He  lay  and  expired  in  his  deep  dispair, 

While  the  cold  moon  swept  from  his  dying  view. 

Affections  placed  on  one  far  above 

The  rank  of  the  lover,  however  true, 
Will  yield  but  the  pang  of  rejected  love, 

As  its  cherished  object  recedes  from  view. 

With  a  cold  and  pitiless  smile  will  set 

The  moon  that  wins  true  though  but  humble  love, 
And  the  breaking  heart  and  the  eyelids  wet 

Repay  the  worship  of  things  above. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  24th,  1885. 


In  the  Hammock.  61 


IN  THE  HAMMOCK. 

Overhead  the  green  leaves  quiver, 
Shaken  by  the  viewless  breeze ; 
Underneath  the  grasses  shiver 
In  the  shadow  of  the  trees ; 
In  the  air  are  murmurs  flying, 
Rising,  sinking,  swelling,  dying, 
With  the  light  winds  changing  ever 
Their  soft,  airy  melodies. 

Overhead  the  sunlight  glances 

In  among  the  treetops  tall ; 
Underneath  the  brightness  dances 

Where  the  cool,  dark  shadows  fall ; 
Checkered  lights  and  shadows  changing 
As  winds  through  the  boughs  are  ranging, 
Bring  a  thousand  airy  fancies, 

And  day-dreams  the  breezes  call. 

The  heart  quivers  like  the  grasses, 
Or  the  green  leaves  overhead, 

When  across  its  fibers  passes 

Throb  of  joy,  or  pain,  or  dread  ; 

And  all  souls  must  thrill  forever, 

For  the  breath  of  passion  never 

Fails  to  sweep  them,  and  all  classes 
Change  from  mirth  to  grief  instead. 


62  In  the  Hammock. 

Life  is  changing  as  the  sighing 

Of  the  wind  among  the  trees  ; 
Hopes  and  fears  are  rising,  dying, 

Like  the  fitful  summer  breeze  ; 
And  our  heart-tones,  never  ending, 
Sad  and  joyous,  ever  blending, 
Shouts  of  mirth  and  bitter  crying, 
Chord  in  life's  strange  harmonies. 

Lights  of  joy  and  shades  of  sorrow 

Mingle  on  its  onward  way. 
And  the  shining  of  to-morrow 

Blends  with  shading  of  to-day, 
Till  life's  mighty  picture  finished 
Glows  in  splendor  undiminished 
'Neath  God's  eye,  and  seems  to  borrow 
Beauty  from  the  shadows'  play. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Aug.  i8th,  1885. 


Touched  by  the  Frost.  63 


TOUCHED  BY  THE  FROST. 

One  by  one  the  flowers  fade 

At  evening's  chilly  breath, 
Withering  in  forest  shade 

To  their  autumnal  death  ; 
And  one  by  one  their  hues  are  lost, 
Touched  by  the  frost. 

One  by  one  the  bright  leaves  fall 

Down  from  the  parent  trees. 
Sere  and  dead,  like  autumn's  pall, 

They  rustle  in  the  breeze, 
As  to  the  cold  earth  they  are  tossed, 
Touched  by  the  frost. 

One  by  one  the  hopes  decay 
That  we  have  cherished  long, 

As  disappointment  in  their  way 
Breathes  icily  and  strong. 

They  perish  when  their  paths  are  crossed, 
Touched  by  the  frost. 


64  Ton  died  by  the  Frost. 

One  by  one  the  friends  depart 
Whose  lives  were  bound  to  ours ; 

Death  breathes  on  each  loving  heart, 
And,  like  leaves,  hopes  and  flowers, 

They  leave  us,  and  we  mourn  them  lost, 
Touched  by  the  frost. 

One  by  one  the  days  go  by 

To  swell  the  tide  of  years 
And,  sweet  or  sad,  the  moments  fly 

That  bring  us  smiles  or  tears. 
We,  too,  shall  sink,  like  leaves  wind-tossed, 
Touched  by  the  frost. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Oct.  2Q//I,  1884. 


From  Both  Sides.  65 


FROM  BOTH  SIDES. 

The  pure  snow  crystal  that  the  skies  give  birth, 
Falling,  viewed  from  below,  looks  dark  as  night, 

But  seen  when  resting  on  the  lap  of  earth 
It  gleams  in  beauty  of  a  dazzling  white. 

The  self-same  water  in  the  shadowed  pool 
Shows  inky  black  to  those  who  wander  near, 

That  the  bold  diver  in  its  bosom  cool 

Looks  up  and  sees  a  silver  white  and  clear. 

The  thunder-cloud,  above  a  sable  pall 
Rolling  its  jetty  volume  fold  on  fold, 

Sweeps  over,  and  the  sunlight  changes  all 
To  fleecy  billows  edged  with  red  and  gold, 

All  things  wear  hues  unlike  to  unlike  eyes, 
And  other  standpoints  other  forms  will  show ; 

Their  shape  and  shade  depend  on  where  they  rise ; 
Not  from  one  view  may  man  their  nature  know. 

Call  not  a  single  act  ill-done,  or  well ; 

Motives  alone  could  give  an  honest  light. 
Call  no  heart  good  or  bad,  for  none  can  tell ; 

Since  to  no  two  is  man  the  selfsame  sight. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  ist,  1889. 


SONGS  OF  SORROW. 


CONFESSIONS. 

Come  hither,  my  fair,  sweet  maiden, 
With  the  tender  and  questioning  eyes, 

Half-way  betwixt  child  and  woman, 
When  the  strange,  new  thoughts  arise, 

And  the  dawn  of  a  glorious  promise 
Seems  to  break  in  the  future's  skies. 

Come  hither,  my  innocent  girlie, 
Fresh  as  just  from  the  Hand  above, 

Whose  young  heart  is  vaguely  thrilling 
With  the  prelude  of  coming  love, 

In  a  dream-world  whose  disappointment, 
Sin,  and  sorrow  you  yet  must  prove. 

Let  your  pure  lips  fashion  the  questions 

In  your  dewy  eyes  I  see, 
Though  buried  and  sad  recollections 

Laid  bare  by  your  words  may  be ; 
For  I  know  that  you  long  to  fathom 

Why  the  years  have  dealt  thus  with  me ; 


Confessions.  69 

And  why,  in  this  world  of  beauty, 

Where  joy  only  you  have  known, 
A  sadness  is  ever  upon  me, 

That  deeper  with  years  has  grown  ; 
And  why,  amid  love  and  sunshine, 

I  am  gray,  and  wrinkled,  and  lone. 

Ah,  Bessie,  it  seems  so  lately,  . 

Though  years  have  passed  by  since  then, 
That  I,  too,  was  young  and  buoyant, 

Hoping,  planning,  like  all  young  men, 
With  my  life's  skies,  like  yours,  all  glowing,  — 

Now  never  to  clear  again  ! 

Yes ;  it  seems  only  yester-evening, 

Though  so  many  long  years  ago, 
That  a  full-orbed  moon  came  sailing 

Up  the  heavens,  serene  and  slow, 
Till  the  gold-spangled  sky's  vast  azure 

Was  flooded  with  silvery  glow  ; 

And  one  tree-bordered  lane  was  silent, 

Deserted  one  village  street 
Whose  shadows  the  far-off  lamp-posts 

And  moonlight  made  more  complete, 
While  a  cool  night  breeze  went  stealing 

Through  the  spring-blooms  dewy-sweet. 


70  Confessions. 

And  down  through  its  grand,  dim  archway, 

So  purely  and  peacefully  still, 
While  the  dusk  and  the  springtime  fragrance 

Hovered  soft  o'er  the  tree-crowned  hill, 
Four  happy  young  hearts  moved  onward 

To  the  old,  ruined  Blackman  Mill. 

They  passed  through  a  yawning  doorway, 
Like  a  vast  and  a  sightless  eye, 

Staring  black  up  the  street  so  silent, 

While  the  wind  and  the  stream  stole  by, 

And  in  fancy  again  we  enter, 
Ben,  Madge,  and  Annie  and  I. 

Through  the  power  ot  a  fond  remembrance 

Again  on  that  scene  I  gaze  ; 
Open  doorways  and  shattered  windows, 

Shot  through  by  the  moon's  white  rays; 
Black. holes  in  the  rude  floor,  gaping 

Like  the  gates  into  demon  ways. 

And  the  saw-frames  stood  like  specters 
Of  the  laborers  there  no  more, 

As  we  picked  our  way  in  the  darkness 
Round  the  timbers  that  strewed  the  floor, 

To  the  open  end  of  the  ruin 

O'erhanging  the  stream  and  shore. 


Confessions.  7 1 

The  moonlight  fell  on  the  water, 

Chiming  onward  through  shade  and  shine, 

Till  it  glowed  in  the  tender  glory, 
A  lake  for  a  world  divine ; 

And  the  scent-laden  wind  sang  ever 

Through  the  boughs  of  poplar  and  pine. 

The  golden  stars'  faint  reflections 

Twinkled  up  from  the  shimmering  plain 

To  where  heaven's  lamps  celestial, 
Like  calm  eyes,  looked  down  again 

On  that  silvery  mirror,  girdled 
With  a  tree-belt's  shadowy  chain. 

'Twas  a  landscape  let  down  from  heaven 

In  an  evening  of  Paradise  ; 
Nothing  like  it,  I  know,  will  ever 

Be  seen  by  my  waking  eyes ; 
In  a  setting  of  memories  tender 

That  hour,  like  a  jewel,  lies. 

What  we  said  and  dreamed  I  know  not, 

But  many  a  tender  thought, 
And  hope,  and  plan  there  cherished, 

With  happiness  deeply  fraught, 
The  years  have  fulfilled  for  others, 

While  with  me  they  came  to  naught. 


72  Confessions. 

The  evening  changed  into  dawning ; 

The  dawning  grew  into  day ; 
Years  passed.     Ben  and  Madge  are  married, 

But  further  I  can  not  say ; 
And  Annie  sleeps  in  the  churchyard 

By  that  shaded  street  far  away. 

And  I  —  I  am  what  you  see  me, 
Gray,  wrinkled,  lonely  and  old  ; 

That  scene,  those  hopes  can  return  not 
Till  the  jasper  gates  unfold. 

Little  girl,  your  story's  beginning, 
But  mine  is  a  tale  that's  told. 

Leave  the  old  man  his  sorrow,  Bessie ; 

Your  tender  young  eyes  are  wet ; 
God  grant  that  your  sun  in  shadows 

And  sorrow  may  never  set 
Like  mine  !     But  its  rising  beauties 

I  nevermore  can  forget. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  July  28th,  1889. 


The  Patriarch's  Death.  73 


THE  PATRIARCH'S  DEATH. 

The  old  man  sat  alone  at  eventide, 

At  rest  from  all  his  labors  ;  day  by  day, 

For  weeks  and  months,  his  strength  had  ebbed  and  failed, 

His  thin,  white  locks  grown  thinner,  and  his  beard, 

His  silver  beard,  had  turned  a  purer  snow ; 

His  once  large  form  grown  shrunken,  and  the  lines 

Of  age  and  care  sunk  deeper  in  his  face, 

For  he  was  full  of  years  and  goodly  works. 

His  friends  and  he  alike  knew  that  the  hour 

Of  final  separation  neared  apace, 

But  all  was  peace  with  him.     Behind  him  lay 

A  long  and  useful  life,  almost  complete, 

The  good  fight  fought,  the  faith  well  kept,  the  course 

Finished  at  last,  the  work  done  given  him, 

And  all  his  duty,  as  to  him  made  plain, 

To  God  and  man,  as  far  as  in  him  was. 

Content  to  go,  and  in  his  faith  secure, 

Calmly  he  waited  for  the  summons  home, 

The  message  from  his  Father ;  trusting  still 

His  work  might  gain  for  him  the  plaudit  sweet, 

The  blest  reward,  the  welcome  words,  "  Well  done  !  " 


74  The  Patriarch's  Death. 

And  as  he  sat  then  in  the  twilight  hour, 
The  gloaming  of  the  day  and  of  his  life, 
An  angel's  finger  touched  the  beating  heart, 
And  it  grew  still  forever.     In  his  chair 
A  waxen  image  leaned,  a  look  of  peace 
Upon  the  calm,  still  features.     Gone  the  lines 
Of  age  and  care ;  some  unseen,  loving  hand 
Had  smoothed  them  all  away.  •  The  silver  crown 
Of  scanty  locks,  and  snowy,  floating  beard 
Gleamed  like  a  halo  round  the  face  serene, 
Where  a  still  beauty  and  calm  majesty 
In  grandeur  sat ;  but  he,  the  father  loved, 
The  friend  respected  through  a  godly  life, 
He,  who  had  striven,  suffered,  fought,  and  won, 
Was  gone  forever  to  his  sure  reward ; 
His  God  had  taken  him. 

West  Mt.   Vernon,  Me.,  July  2jn/,  1888. 


Dream  and  Reality.  75 


DREAM  AND  REALITY. 

The  farmer  stood  by  the  cottage  door, 

When  the  summer  day  was  done, 
As  down  from  the  hillside  the  cattle  came 

To  the  farm-yard,  one  by  one, 
And,  following  close  to  the  sleek-haired  kine, 

Came  the  farmer's  only  son. 

The  father  gazed  on  the  manly  boy 
With  his  heart  full  of  love  and  pride, 

And  thought  in  the  days  when  life's  toil  was  done, 
And  he  neared  the  stream's  dark  side, 

That  loving  and  filial  hands  would  smooth 
His  path  down  to  death's  cold  tide. 

He  dreamed  of  life's  evening  calm  and  sweet, 
When  the  boy  should  come  home  to  stay, 

And  he  should  stand,  as  he  stood  that  night, 
A  grandsire  old  and  gray, 

While  his  son's  son  followed  the  cattle  home 
At  the  close  of  the  summer  day. 


76  Dream  and  Reality. 

But  the  years  rolled  on,  and  those  bright  dreams  fled; 

They  vanished  in  tears  and  pain  ; 
For  the  son  sleeps  under  the  golden  sands 

Of  a  Californian  plain, 
And  the  old  man  drives  home  the  cows  alone 

On  the  rock-ribbed  hills  of  Maine. 

South  Fayette,  Me.,  June  ist,  i88f. 


0.  Fair  and  Spotless  Sleeper !  77 


O,  FAIR  AND  SPOTLESS  SLEEPER! 

O,  fair  and  spotless  sleeper,  calm,  serene, 

With  lovely  lips  still  parted  as  for  breath, 
And  sweet  eyes,  hidden  by  a  snowy  screen, 

Locked  in  the  marble  mystery  of  death  ! 
O,  blameless  one  upon  a  sin-stained  earth  ! 

O,  stainless  soul  amid  a  thousand  crimes  ! 
Pure  as  in  infancy,  the  heavenly  birth 

But  ushers  you,  unchanged,  to  fairer  climes. 

O,  waxen  image  of  white  purity  ! 

O,  sculptured  form  of  marble  innocence  ! 
You  are  not  like  one  from  earth  just  set  free, 

In  pity  called  from  suffering  intense ; 
You  seem  a  new  creation  of  God's  hand, 

Fresh  formed  in  rare  and  perfect  loveliness, 
Awaiting  life  by  His  divine  command, 

Not  one  that  death  has  freed  from  her  distress. 

The  happiness  that  endlessly  endures 

Has  dawned  for  you,  and  griefs  and  cares  are  done  ; 
The  beauties  of  the  world  beyond  are  yours ; 

The  glories  of  eternal  life  are  won. 
Unseal  those  icy  lips  of  frozen  clay, 

Seeming  no  mortal  maiden's,  but  divine, 
Tell  what  those  earth-dulled  ears  have  heard  to-day, 

What  those  veiled  eyes  have  seen  since  meeting  mine. 


78  O,  Fair  and  Spotless  Sleeper  !  . 

In  vain  !     Death's  secret  you  may  not  reveal, 

Although  the  vast,  stupendous  change  you  know ; 
The  faint  gleams  that  across  your  features  steal 

Are  all  the  answer  I  may  hope  below ; 
Those  dim  reflections  of  the  light  above, 

That  o'er  your  pale  and  perfect  beauty  play, 
Are  a  reply,  and  now  I  leave  you,  love  ; 

I,  too,  shall  follow  on  and  learn  —  some  day. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Nov.  i6th,  1889. 


Memories.  79 


MEMORIES. 

It  is  only  a  line  of  a  sacred  song,   an  air  of  the  long 

ago, 
Flung  off  on  the  breeze  by  the  fresh  young  lips  that  carol 

unthinking  why ; 
But  the  singer  trilling  those  tuneful  notes  knows  not,  and 

she  cannot  know, 
With  the  melody  comes  to  one  heart  a  throb,  a  tear-drop 

to  one  sad  eye. 

Is  is  not  the  tune,  though  a  tender  one,  that  summons  the 

falling  tear  ; 
Nor  the  words  it  bears,  though  they,  too,  are  sweet,  there 

are  many  as  sweet  as  they ; 
Nor  the  fair  young  singer,    though  pure  and  true  is  the 

maid  with  the  voice  so  clear, 
That  fills  my  heart  with  a  silent  pain  at  the  close  of  the 

long,  bright  day. 


8o  Memories. 

I  think  of  the  one  I  last  heard  breathe  that  air  in  the  years 

gone  by, 
And  an  empty  place  in  my  inmost  soul  mourns  a  singer 

that  sings  no  more. 
But  nothing  ever  that  void  can  fill,  for  those  lips  in  the 

churchyard  lie, 
And  the  spirit  they  served  then  carols  now  on  another  and 

fairer  shore. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Aug.  6th,  1889. 


Gone.  8 1 


GONE. 

You  have  gone  and  left  us.     We  see  no  more 

The  smile  we  had  learned  to  cherish. 
The  form  we  loved  has  been  laid  away 
Beneath  the  sod  till  the  judgment  day, 
And  the  soul  has  flown  to  the  better  shore 
Where  the  things  we  love  ne'er  shall  perish. 

You  are  gone  from  us  and  our  love,  for  aye, 

To  the  land  where  we  mortals  go  not, 
Beyond  earth's  trials,  beyond  its  cares, 
Beyond  our  fears  and  beyond  our  prayers, 
Beyond  the  stars  and  the  gates  of  day, 
To  a  life  that  as  yet  we  know  not. 

Your  feet  so  tender  have  passed  along, 

Outstripping  our  own  that  linger. 
They  have  gone  the  road  that  our  souls  shall  know, 
The  long,  long  journey  we  too  must  go  ; 
You  have  followed  into  the  world  of  song 

The  death-angel's  beckoning  finger. 


82  Gone. 

The  sins  of  earth  you  will  never  know  ; 

From  the  right  you  will  never  wander. 
You  will  ne'er,  like  us,  sink  in  woe  and  tears ; 
You  are  safe  at  home  for  eternal  years ; 
It  is  well  with  you,  but  we  miss  you  so, 

Since  you  passed  to  the  land  up  yonder  ! 

Farewell !     No  more  shall  we  see  your  face, 
And  our  sorrowing  hearts  are  aching ; 

But  the  weary  waiting  will  soon  be  o'er ; 

We  shall  meet  again  on  a  heavenly  shore, 

Where  tears  and  partings  can  have  no  place, 
When  eternity's  morn  is  breaking. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  22nd,  1888. 


The  Graveyard  by  the  Shore.  83 


THE  GRAVEYARD  BY  THE  SHORE. 

Oh,  the  glowing  summer  weather, 
When  we  wandered  forth  together, 
Hearts  as  light  as  downy  feather, 

To  the  graveyard  by  the  shore  ! 
While  we  passed,  in  sunlight  glancing 
Golden  butterflies  went  dancing, 
And  the  bird-songs  thrilled  entrancing, 

In  the  yore,  yes ;  in  the  yore. 

Crumbling  headstones  old  and  hoary 
Told  in  vain  the  solemn  story 
Of  those  gathered  home  to  glory, 

Entered  in  at  Heaven's  door; 
For  the  pallid  pillars,  gleaming 
In  the  sunlight  o'er  them  streaming 
Joy,  not  sorrow,  told,  in  seeming 

Nothing  more,  no ;  nothing  more 

What  to  us,  whose  hearts  were  leaping, 
Were  the  dead  around  us  sleeping  ? 
Our  eyes  found  no  cause  for  weeping 

In  those  gravestones  old  and  hoar. 
Birds,  aud  butterflies,  and  flowers, 
Health  and  happiness  were  ours, 
Life  and  love  in  rosy  bowers 

Lay  before  us,  close  before. 


84  The  Graveyard  by  the  Shore. 

Ah  !  that  day  is  gone  forever  ! 
Soon  our  life-paths  had  to  sever, 
And  since  then  my  feet  have  never 

Trod  that  graveyard  by  the  shore. 
Years  have  flown,  some  six  or  seven, 
Still  those  pillars  point  to  heaven, 
But  I'll  see  day  change  to  even 

By  them  never,  nevermore  ! 

Birds  still  sing  in  tuneful  numbers 
O'er  those  quiet,  dreamless  slumbers, 
And  the  butterfly  encumbers 

The  bud  there  as  in  the  yore ; 
But  my  life  is  changed  forever, 
Since  our  spirits  had  to  sever, 
And  now,  I  shall  see  her  never, 

Nevermore,  no ;  nevermore. 

Far  away  my  course  is  shifted, 
Love  out  of  my  life  has  drifted, 
And  a  weight  ne'er  to  be  lifted 

Crushes  me,  unknown  of  yore. 
From  that  graveyard  I  have  tarried, 
But  my  darling  since  they  carried, 
Sleeping,  back,  and  left  her  buried 

Evermore,  yes ;  evermore. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Sept.  6th,  1889. 


Calm  after  Storm.  85 


CALM  AFTER  STORM. 

Afflictions  may  roll  like  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 
And  storm-clouds  of  sorrow  life's  skies  overcast, 

But  some  time  will  end  all  earths's  grief  and  commotion ; 
The  sorest  of  trials  is  over  at  last. 

Sad  moments  will  come,  and  there  is  no  escaping, 
For  none  may  evade  the  all-chastening  hand 

Which,  every  destiny  perfectly  shaping, 

Blends  shining  and  shading  in  harmony  grand. 

Though  cares  of  the  world  and  the  sorrows  of  living, 

Its  pains  and  afflictions  must  heavily  fall, 
'Tis  only  to  wait  what  the  future  is  giving, 

And  peace  and  sweet  rest  softly  cover  them  all. 

The  tears  of  the  mourner  fall  fast  in  the  shadows, 
And  weeping  endures  till  the  fleeting  of  night ; 

Hope's  day-star  will  rise  with  the  dawn  o'er  the  meadows, 
And  happiness  come  with  the  coming  of  light. 

Time  softens  all  sorrow,  but,  oh  !  it  is  bitter, 
The  parting  that  lasts  evermore  upon  earth, 

Even  though  the  bright  rainbow  of  promise  may  glitter, 
The  hope  of  reunion  by  heavenly  birth  ! 


86  Calm  after  Storm. 

Rest  cometh  at  last.     From  an  all-loving  Giver 
The  calm  waves  of  peace  to  the  weary  heart  roll ; 

Sorrow's  dark  stains  shall  all  be  washed  white  in  the  river 
Whose  life-giving  current  transfigures  the  soul. 
Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  ijt/i,  1889. 


Showers.  87 


SHOWERS. 

The  raindrops  are  heavily  falling, 

They  rest  on  the  blades  of  the  grass ; 
The  sunlight  and  blue  skies  are  hidden 

By  the  dark  clouds  that  gloomily  pass  ; 
But  brightness  will  follow  the  shower, 

The  sun  shine  serenely  again, 
And  the  whole  earth  be  purer  and  fairer, 

Beautified  by  the  generous  rain. 

Sorrow's  tear-drops  are  heavily  falling, 

Gloomy  thoughts  shroud  the  joy  in  the  heart, 
And  darkness  and  dreary  forebodings 

Quench  the  brightness  Hope  fain  would  impart ; 
But  the  shadows  will  roll  from  the  pathway, 

The  dark  clouds  above  it  will  rise, 
And  all  things  be  purer  and  fairer 

For  the  tear-drops  that  fall  from  the  eyes. 

West  Mt.  Vernon,  Me.,  July  iqth,  1886. 


88  Isobelle. 


ISOBELLE. 

Isobelle  !     My  first  and  last, 
In  the  darkness  I  am  keeping 
Sleepless  watch  in  lonely  weeping, 

Ever  dreaming  of  the  past, 
Of  a  face  than  angel's  fairer, 
Of  the  maiden  truer,  rarer 

Than  this  sin-stained  earth  can  claim. 
Seraph  for  a  season  given, 
Lent  a  little  while  from  heaven, 
Holy  heart  in  spotless  mortal, 

Soon  set  free  from  sin  and  shame, 
You  have  passed  the  silent  portal, 
From  this  life  to  that  immortal, 

And  griefs  billows  round  me  swell, 
Isobelle ! 

Isobelle  !     My  life,  my  all, 
Once  your  tender  presence  blessed  me, 
Once  your  loving  hands  caressed  me, 

Now  for  you  I  vainly  call ! 
Now  my  heart  is  sad  and  lonely, 
My  arms  clasp  the  shadows  only, 

And  your  face  no  more  I  see  ! 


Isobelle.  89 

For  your  love  I  vainly  languish; 
Vainly  calls  my  soul  in  anguish 
From  earth's  sorrow-shadowed  places, 

For  you  do  not  come  to  me  ! 
Mine  no  more  are  your  embraces  ! 
Grave-grass  grows  between  our  faces, 

And  your  love  you  can  not  tell, 
Isobelle  ! 

Isobelle  !  My  lost  and  prized, 
Loved  while  yet  in  earthly  station 
With  an  angel's  adoration, 

When  you  passed  but  recognized, 
Death  has  cruelly  bereft  me ; 
Only  memories  are  left  me, 

And  the  sobs  of  sorrow  swell ! 
Never  mine  the  dreamed-of  blisses, 
Mine  no  more  your  tender  kisses, 
But  your  sweet  name's  liquid  falling 

Is  my  music,  Isobelle  ! 
O,  white  soul  in  joys  enthralling, 
Hear  the  hungry  heart  that's  calling 

From  the  shadows  where  I  dwell, 
Isobelle  ! 

Isobelle  !     My  love,  my  love  ! 
Can  you  hear  my  bitter  crying 
In  the  gloom  where  I  am  lying  ? 

Can  you  see  me  from  above  ? 


90  Isobelle. 

Is  your  soul  affection-laden 
As  on  earth,  O,  seraph  maiden, 

Safe  beyond  the  golden  gate  ? 
Do  you  linger,  praying  ever, 
Just  beyond  the  rolling  river? 
With  God's  glory  round  you  lying 

For  me  do  you  fondly  wait  ? 

0  my  lost  one,  hear  my  crying  ! 
Mine  in  living,  mine  in  dying, 

In  Eternity  as  well, 
Isobelle ! 

Isobelle  !     O,  Isobelle  ! 
As  on  earth,  now  up  above  me, 
Guide  me,  guard  me,  lead  me,  love  me, 

Till  Death's  waters  round  me  swell ! 
Silently  your  earth-life  bade  me 
Shun  the  wrong,  and  better  made  me ; 

May  its  power  still  be  seen  ! . 

1  am  nobler,  purer,  truer 
For  a  love  that  will  endure. 
Though  the  dark  and  silent  river 

Pour  its  torrents  in  between  !  •  \ 

Souls  will  sunder,  spirits  sever, 
Yet  it  can  not  be  forever ; 

I  shall  join  you  where  you  dwell, 
Isobelle  ! 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  28th,  1889. 


The  Union  Station.  91 


THE  UNION  STATION. 

I  have  often  sat  in  that  room  so  vast, 

While  trains  unheeded  went  thundering  by, 

Alone,  with  a  multitude  hurrying  past, 
And  numberless  strangers  lingering  nigh. 

They  come  and  go,  and  they  shift  and  change ; 

They  cross  and  recross  the  echoing  floor, 
In  a  varying  vision  of  features  strange, 

Winding  in  and  out  through  each  open  door. 

And  again  and  again,  as  I  watch  the  scene, 
All  types  of  humanity  hurrying  past, 

My  mind  flies  backward  to  what  has  been, 
While  a  shadow  is  over  my  spirit  cast. 

Some  look  familiar  recalls  one  dear, 
The  face  that  I  loved  in  years  gone  by, 

And  I  dream  for  an  instant  that  it  is  near, 
When  that  of  some  stranger  meets  my  eye. 

Some  glance  or  gesture,  some  trick  of  dress, 
Some  form  or  feature  I  seem  to  know, 

Once  more  brings  a  vision  of  loveliness 
From  the  gathered  shadows  of  long  ago. 


92  The  Union  Station. 

Too  often,  while  watching  the  varying  stream 
That  is  ever  eddying  round  the  door, 

A  fancied  resemblance  recalls  the  dream, 

And  I  look  for  a  loved  one  that  comes  no  more. 

In  some  vacant  chamber  within  my  heart, 
Some  ghostly  hall  of  the  haunted  past, 

Will  a  throbbing  sorrow  re-echoing  start, 

As  the  footsteps  ring  through  the  station  vast. 

But  she  never  crosses  the  sounding  floor, 
Though  many  reminding  of  her  I  see ; 

She  has  entered  the  last  station's  sheltering  door, 
Golden-bright  on  the  inside,  but  dark  to  me. 

No  train  returning  will  bear  her  back 
To  earth's  way-station,  but  I  can  wait ; 

For  Time's  car  is  bearing  me  down  the  track 
To  the  heavenly  terminus'  glittering  gate. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  24th,  i88g. 


The  Holly  Queen.  93 


THE  HOLLY  QUEEN. 

A  picture  is  spread  before  me  of  a  maiden  serene  and 
fair, 

With  eyes  like  the  skies  of  summer  and  its  light  in  her 
golden  hair. 

'Tis  the  herald  of  Merry  Christmas,  the  beautiful  Holly 
Queen, 

With  her  head  crowned  and  arms  o'erflowing  with  glisten 
ing  leaves  of  green. 

It  brings   back  another   picture    from    the  days  of  long 

ago, 
The  face  of  another  maiden,  with  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes 

aglow, 
And  a  wreath  of  the  Christmas  holly  surrounding  her  fair 

young  head, 
With  a  circlet  of  glossy  greenness  thick  set  with  its'  berries 

red. 

The  sound  of  her  "  Merry  Christmas !  "  come  back  through 
the  vanished  years, 

And  my  heart  feels  a  tender  sorrow,  my  vision  is  dimmed 
by  tears, 

As  I  think  of  the  voice  now  silent  and  lost  to  this  world 
for  aye, 

And  the  fair  form  in  earth  long  hidden  awaiting  the  Judg 
ment  Day. 


94  The  Holly  Queen. 

The  hues  of  the  picture  fade  not  in  the  sweet  face  and  eyes 

of  trust, 
Though  the  form  of  my  Christmas  herald  has  long  since 

returned  to  dust, 
And,  in  place  of  the  Christmas  holly,  with  its  green  leaves 

and  berries  gay, 
The  crown  of  a  ransomed  angel  on  her  spirit  brow  shines 

to-day. 

Some  time  I  shall  once  more  see  her,  when  my  sorrows  and 

cares  are  o'er, 
And  again  I  shall  hear  her  greeting,  on  another  and  better 

shore ; 
And  the  day  that  shall  bring  that  meeting  is  one  that  I 

long  to  see, 
For  a  last,  long  merry  Christmas  with  her  presence  will 

come  to  me. 

The  picture  brings  back  the  shadow  of  the  sorrow  of  buried 

years, 
But    the    tenderest    joys   of    mortals    are    ever    akin    to 

tears. 
Half  in  joy,  half  in  pain,  I  gaze  on  the  child  with  her 

crown  of  green, 
As  I  dream  and  yearn  for  the  meeting  with  my  long-lost 

Holly  Queen. 

Camcien,  N.  J.  Dec.  41/1,  1886. 


-Sometime  ;  Not  Now.  95 


SOMETIME;  NOT  NOW. 

I  can  not  see  her,  though  I  strain  my  eyes 
To  pierce  the  shades  that  hid  her  years  ago  ; 

The  darkness  and  the  bitter  tears  that  rise 
Still  veil  the  land  we  mortals  may  not  know. 

Gone  is  the  face  I  fondly  learned  to  love, 

Forever  from  this  world  to  that  above. 

I  can  not  hear  the  tones  that  once  were  dear, 
In  the  glad  days  that  never  will  return  ; 

Their  echoes  died  away  forever  here, 

Leaving  torn,  aching  hearts  and  eyes  that  burn, 

Mourning  a  loss  that  earth  can  never  fill, 

And  wounds  time  has  not  healed,  and  never  will. 

I  know  that  face  no  more  my  eyes  will  meet ; 

Death's  barriers  on  earth  can  ne'er  be  crossed. 
I  know  that  voice  my  ears  can  never  greet, 

But  even  yet  I  can  not  make  her  lost. 
I  almost  see  her  in  the  world  of  souls ; 
Almost  to  me  her  whisper's  echo  rolls. 


\ 
96    '  Sometime ;  Not  Now. 

It  can  not  be  far  to  that  summer  land, 

When  dwellers  there  and  on  this  hither  side 

Are  bound  by  strong  ties  that  the  years  withstand, 
And  thought  and  influence  cross  the  parting  tide. 

We  are  not  sundered  wide  by  tomb  and  pall ; 

Death's  stream  is  but  a  brooklet,  after  all. 

They  can  not  come  to  us ;  that  bound  is  set. 

Our  feet  must  cross  to  them  in  realms  beyond. 
One  day  we'll  join  our  lost  ones,  but  not  yet ! 

Greet  them  with  words  of  love  and  glances  fond. 
Some  day  that  meeting  will  my  heart  rejoice ; 
I'll  see  her  face  again,  and  hear  her  voice  ! 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  jrd,  /88g. 


Waiting  Evermore.  97 


WAITING  EVERMORE. 

Waiting  evermore,  I  linger 

For  a  step  that  cometh  not ; 
Eagerly  I  look  and  listen 
For  the  eyes  with  love  a-glisten, 
For  the  sweet  voice  of  the  singer 

That  once  blessed  my  earthly  lot ; 
But  in  sad  and  silent  weeping 
I  my  lonely  watch  am  keeping 
For  no  presence  comes  to  fling  a 
Glory  round  life's  darkest  spot. 

Those  light  feet,  in  music  falling 

By  my  own  in  days  of  yore, 
Have  outstripped  my  own  forever, 
And,  on  earth,  my  ears  will  never 
Hear  again  that  voice  enthralling; 

She  has  reached  the  farther  shore. 
Golden  gates  of  death's  to-morrow 
Guard  her  from  all  earthly  sorrow, 
And  my  heart  is  vainly  calling, 
Waiting,  waiting  evermore. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Dec.  nth,  1889. 


98  The  Nt'iv-Made  Grave. 


THE  NEW-MADE  GRAVE. 

There's  a  new-made  mound  on  the  bleak  hillside, 
In  among  the  graves  that  were  there  before, 

And,  though  Fame  knew  not  of  the  one  that  died, 
There's  a  spot  in  a  few  hearts  aching  sore; 

But  the  living  must  wait,  and  watch,  and  weep, 

Though  the  dead  lie  low  in  the  last  long  sleep. 

There's  a  tender  face  that  is  seen  no  more, 

And  with  anguish  missed  from  the  silent  room, 

And  a  pure  soul  sped  to  the  spirit  shore, 
Whose  clay-cell  crumbles  in  yonder  tomb ; 

T3ut  the  living  must  sob  in  their  sorrow  sore, 

While  their  loved  sing  psalms  on  a  sunlit  shore. 

'There's  a  vacant  place  at  the  board  to-night, 
And  an  empty  chair  that  is  viewed  with  tears : 

XJlory  graves  no  epitaph  glittering  bright, 
But  the  plain  white  stone  is  a  grief  for  years 

To  those  who  ponder  with  pain  and  prayer 

Why  parting  should  life's  chords  asunder  tear. 


The  New-Made  Grave.  99 

There's  a  break  in  the  circle  around  the  hearth, 
A  gem,  from  Love's  diadem  lost,  to  mourn, 

A  link  of  its  rosary  reft  from  earth, 

A  leaf  from  its  missal  is  stripped  and  torn  ; 

But  the  living  must  linger,  and  long,  and  love, 

Though  the  Lord  has  summoned  their  lost  above. 

There  are  some  sad  souls  that  are  near  despair, 
With  an  aching  void  there  is  naught  can  fill, 

Though  the  proud  and  haughty  nor  think  nor  care 
That  the  humble  heart  has  at  last  grown  still. 

Death  has  crushed  and  ruined  the  casket  bars, 

But  the  jewel  it  held  is  beyond  the  stars. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Nov.  ^.th,  1889. 


TOO  A  Memory  Picture. 


A  MEMORY  PICTURE. 

Out  of  the  mighty  portals  of  the  past, 
From  the  dim  mystery  of  vanished  years, 

In  perfect  beauty,  too  serene  to  last, 
This  picture  to  my  spirit's  eye  appears : 

A  vast,  black,  moonless,  arching  dome  above, 
Where  each  great  star  in  burning  beauty  glows, 

The  solemn  stillness  of  a  shadowed  grove, 
A  midnight  landscape  holy  in  repose. 

A  silent  mansion  looming  dark  and  still, 
A  pale  face  smiling  from  the  open  door, 

Great,  dark  eyes  shining  through  the  tears  that  fill, 
Out  from  the  shadows:  this  —  and  nothing  more. 

Only  a  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past, 
The  recollection  of  a  fond  good-bye, 

Whose  sorrow-haunted  memory  will  last 

Unchanged  and  fresh  as  changing  moments  fly. 

Sometime  that  face  will  smile  on  me  again  — 
But  from  the  open  door  of  Paradise  ; 

Not  from  the  shadows,  but  God's  light  within ; 
With  joy,  not  tear-drops,  shining  in  the  eyes. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Jan.  2nd,  1890. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


The  Poem  Mill.  103 


THE  POEM  MILL. 

Of  telephones,  and  phonographs,  and  such  things  I  had 

read, 
Until  a  great  and  dizzy  thought  went  spinning  through  my 

head. 

Inventors  often  fame  achieve,  and  fortune,  —  why  not  I? 
Glory  and  millions  are  not  bad,  so  I  was  bound  to  try. 

The  papers  of  these  latter  days  are  slopped  around  with 

rhyme 
That,  read  by  chance,  is  apt  to  prove  most  awful  half  the 

time, 

And  so  I  thought  I'd  compass  wealth  and  into  glory  jump, 
And  flood  the  world  with  poetry  through  some  new  patent 

pump. 

And  so  I  studied  hard  and  long  to  build  me  a  machine 
To  grind  out  better  poems  than  the  world  has  often  seen, 
Ode,  sonnet,  rondeau,  elegy,  dirge,  serenade  or  song, 
By  inch  or  quarter,  yard  or  mile,  big,  little,  short  or  long. 


IO4  The  Poem  Mill. 

Enough  to  say,  the  work  was  done.     A  gorgeous  looking 

thing, 
Complete  and  shining  everywhere  in  bar,  and  wheel,  and 

spring, 
Was  locked  into  my  room  with  me,    undreamed  of  and 

unknown. 
I  meant  to  touch  the  critter  off  in  silence  and  alone. 

I  knew  not  how  the  thing  would  work,  or  if  'twould  work 

at  all, 
Or  to  what  style  the  drum  was  set  through  which  it  was  to 

squall. 

I  was  a  good  deal  scared,  I  own,  but,  like  a  little  man, 
I  turned  the  valve — a  whir,  a  squeak,  and  the  machine 
began  : 

"  I  loves  my  love  and  my  love  loves  me ; 
I  loves  her  better  nor  catnip  tea ; 
I  sticks  to  her  like  a  pot  o'  glue, 
Cyclones  can't  bust  our  love  in  tew." 

I  didn't  like  that  sort  of  thing,  too  soft  it  was  by  far, 
And  so  I  gave  a  little  pull  upon  the  tension-bar ; 
At  once  it  started  off  again,  but  took  another  text. 
These  are  the  grand  and  solemn  words  I  heard  it  utter  next : 

"  The  spangled  skies  in  glory  shine, 

As  countless  worlds  together  sing, 
And  praise  and  melody  divine 

Each  night  through  heavens  arches  ring." 


The  Poem  Mill.  105 

"A  hymn  of  praise,"  I  cried  in  joy,   "what  majesty  of 

tone  ! 
A  mighty  work   have  I  achieved ;    world-wide  shall  I  be 

known  !  " 

But  there,  alas  !  some  jar  displaced  the  cylinder  or  drum, 
And  in  a  wink  the  sacred  style  had  gone  to  kingdom  come. 

"  Big  feet  kept  time  to  fiddles'  play, 
The  'baccy  burned,  rum  slipped  away, 
In  short,  the  divil  was  to  pay 
In  Pat  Maloney's  kitchen." 

Those  were  the  words  that  smote  my  ears ;   I  shuddered 

there  in  fear 

Of  what  might  be  forthcoming  next.     Ere  I  could  interfere, 
The  belt   slipped   half-way  off  the   wheel;    away  it  went 

again, 
But  though  it  never  made  a  stop,  it  struck  another  strain : 

"  On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low ; 
I  saw  a  base-ball  umpire's  woe. 
So  pesky  loud  he  had  to  holler 
He'd  split  in  two  his  paper  collar." 

The  crazy  thing  was  half  run  down,  so  weaker  grew  the 

spring ; 
It  jumped  the  track  and  something  new  it  then  began  to 

sing, 

And  at  the  sad  and  tender  lines  all  melted  was  my  heart ; 
I  heaved  a  sigh  and  in  my  eyes  the  tears 'began  to  start. 


io6  The  Poem  Mill. 

"  Under  the  daisies  her  form  lies  forever, 
Love  can  not  clasp  it  low  under  the  sod ; 

But  her  pure  soul  has  returned  to  the  giver ; 
She  is  at  rest  in  the  bosom  of  God." 

The  tension-bar  broke  half  in  two ;  I  knew  it  had  a  flaw ; 

Off  on  a  tangent  flew  the  mill ;  such  sense  I  never  saw 

In  a  thing  lifeless.     Though  of  course  they'd  not  apply 

to  me, 
Yet  it  said  things  embarrassing,  as  you  must  plainly  see : 

"  '  Rock-a-bye  baby,'  you  rest  from  your  cares ; 

Papa  hugs  the  nurse-girl  out  on  the  back  stairs. 

His  moustache  is  tickling  her  little  pink  ear; 

Good  Lord  !  if  the  mistress  that  smacking  should  hear  !  " 

Though,  as  I  said,  its  words  to  me  could  never  be  applied, 
I   gave   a   spring   of  (lightning   speed   and    reached    that 

demon's  side. 

I  hit  the  thing  a  furious  slap  and  shook  a  pulley  clear ; 
I  knew  I  would  need  heaven's  help  if  my  wife  chanced  to 

hear. 

"You  can't  write  a  poem,  you  haven't  the  sense; 
Your  head  is  a  pudding,  your  brain  is  so  dense  ! 
You  think  you're  a  great  one,  you're  only  a  fool; 
Get  a  bake  on  your  top-piece,  and  go  let  it  cool !  " 


The  Poem  Mill.  107 

In  this  way  it  had  started  off,  but,  ere  I'd  time  to  stir, 
The  tension-bar  broke  quite  apart,  a  snap,  a  crash,  a  whir, 
And  it  had  stopped;  and  since  that  time  it  can't  be  made 

to  go ; 
But  mighty  glad  of  it  I  am,  it  got  .to  talking  so  ! 

Long  Island,  Me.,  May  ^7//5,  1889. 


io8  The  Girl  of  To-day. 


THE  GIRL  OF  TO-DAY. 

An  Instructive  Dialogue. 

Tell  me,  what  is  the  girl  of  to-day  ? 
And  what  is  she  made  of  I  say, 

As  to  what  Nature  lacked  ? 

And  how  does  she  act, 
The  model  she-dude  of -to-day? 

How  is  a  girl's  hair  dressed  to-day? 
Snarled  in  a  most  horrible  way, 

Then  capped  with  a  switch, 

Daubed  with  sugar  and  pitch, 
Then  combed  in  her  eyes,  so  they  say  ! 

About  the  girls'  faces  to-day, 
What  is  it  on  them,  tell  me,  pray  ? 

"Lily-white"  and  "rose-pink," 

And  Indian  ink 
Or  burnt  cloves  on  their  eyebrows,  they  say  ! 

How  is  a  girl's  form  made  to-day? 
And  how  is  it  fashioned,  I  pray? 

Of  whale-bone  and  steel, 

Paper,  cotton,  rags,  meal, 
On  a  human  foundation,  they  say  ! 


The  Girl  of  To-day.  109 

How  is  a  girl's  foot  dressed  to-day? 
And  what  is  that  made  of,  I  pray  ? 

Of  bunion  and  corn, 

And  French  heels  stuck  on 
Shoes  three  sizes  small,  so  they  say  ! 

And  what  does  a  girl  wear  to-day, 

When  she  goes  on  her  proud,  mashing  way  ? 

Dresses  with  monstrous  trails 

To  trip  up  the  males, 
And  four  acres  of  hat,  so  they  say  ! 

And  how  are  their  sleeves  made  to-day  ? 
Tight  as  candle-molds  every  way, 

Snug  as  a  sausage  skin  ; 

They  can  only  get  in 
By  greasing  their  arms,  so  they  say  ! 

And  what  does  a  girl  do  to-day, 
To  pass  the  long  hours,  I  pray  ? 

Read  novels  or  flirt, 

Or  sit  in  the  dirt, 
Till  her  mother  can  clear  it  away  ! 

And  what  else  can  a  girl  do  to-day  ? 
Sit  at  the  piano  and  play, 

Or  squeal  at  a  mouse, 

Or  sing  in  the  house 
Till  the  neighbors  have  all  moved  away  ! 


I 10  The  Girl  of  To-day. 

How  know  you  the  girl  of  to-day  ? 
When  you  see  a  thing  limping  away, 

All  padding  and  ban§, 

And  giggle  and  slang, 
You  may  know  'tis  a  girl  of  to-day  ! 
Port  Republic,  N.  /.,  Dec.  261/1,  1883. 


Once. 


ONCE. 

There  was  a  youth,  a  dashing  youth, 
Whose  heart  was  blithe  and  gay, 

But  often  (if  we  tell  the  truth) 
He  gazed  across  the  way. 

There  was  a  maid,  a  lovely  maid, 

Who  with  coquettish  art 
Upon  that  youth's  soft  feelings  played, 

Until  she  won  his  heart. 

There  was  a  dad,  a  savage  dad, 
Who  kept  the  youth  at  bay, 

And  said  for  him  it  would  be  bad 
To  come  across  the  way. 

There  was  a  night,  a  lovely  night, 
The  youth  could  wait  no  more, 

But  sallied  forth  in  trembling  fright 
To  that  unfriendly  door. 

There  was  a  dog,  a  monstrous  dog, 
The  dad  had  placed  on  guard. 

He  saw  the  youth's  slow,  cautious  jog, 
And  crouched  down  in  the  yard. 


1 1 2  Once. 

There  was  a  leap,  a  flying  leap ; 

The  youth  had  turned  to  flee ; 
The  dog's  teeth  went  in  pretty  deep 

A  foot  above  the  knee. 

There  was  a  shriek,  a  frenzied  shriek, 

The  youth  he  tore  away  ; 
Swearing  as  fast  as  he  could  speak, 

He  dashed  across  the  way. 

There  were  some  pants,  some  Sunday  pants, 
That  once  had  looked  so  neat, 

But  now,  through  fortune's  cruel  chance, 
They  haven't  any  seat. 

There  was  a  day,  a  mournful  day, 

That  youth  felt  rather  queer, 
And  had  to  stand  up  any  way 

With  plasters  in  the  rear. 

There  is  a  youth,  a  timid  youth, 
Who  says,  with  dismal  groan. 

His  duty's  plain  to  him,  forsooth, 
To  let  the  girls  alone. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Dec.  8th,  1883. 


Geese.  \  1 3 


GEESE. 

A  sturdy  goose  from  the  farm -yard  came, 
And  his  post  in  the  highway  took, 

And  before  a  carriage  he  hissed  and  squalled, 
.  While  his  huge  wings  he  flapped  and  shook. 

The  horse,  amazed  at  his  threatening  air, 
Stopped  short,  and  the  road  was  won ; 

But  the  whip's  touch  urged  and  the  gander  fled, 
Hissing  still,  as  the  team  dashed  on. 

So  many  a  man  in  this  world  of  ours 

Is  full  of  his  blustering  noise, 
And  his  threatening  manners  will  ofttimes  stop 

Strong  movements  his  squall  annoys. 
But  those  who  steadily  onward  press, 

Find  his  bluster  is  void  of  use ; 
In  spite  of  flapping,  and  squawk,  and  noise, 

He  is  naught  but  a  harmless  goose. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  July  sSth,  i88g. 


1 14  The  Poor  Poet's  Pegasus. 


THE  POOR  POET'S  PEGASUS. 

My  Pegasus,  sure,  is  the  queerest  of  creatures  ! 
He  has  a  horse-laugh  on  his  asinine  features, 
He's  lean  and  he's  lazy,  he's  ragged  and  funny, 
He's  hungry  and  balky,  and  won't  bring  the  money. 

This  steed  of  the  Muse  is  ill-fitted  for  flying, 
Since  no  one  can  tell  for  what  point  he  is  trying  : 
If  he  don't  dump  one  off  in  his  crazy  careering, 
Like  a  kite  with  no  tail,  he  is  far  beyond  steering. 

His  thin  coat  is  rough,  and  his  wing  lacking  feathers ; 
His  gait  is  uncertain  in  all  sorts  of  weathers ; 
His  back  is  too  sharp  to  ride  feeling  contented  ; 
He  kicks,  bites  and  flounders  as  if  half-demented. 

He  never  can  soar  like  an  eagle,  far  from  it ! 
•Or  blaze  through  the  skies  like  a  heaven-born  comet ; 
Ah,  no  !     He  would  miss  of  whatever  he  ran  at, 
.Flopping  off  like  a  goose,  when  he's  built  like  a  gannet. 

And  bridled  and  brought  upon  plain  terra  firma, 
His  antics  would  make  the  most  patient  bard  murmur. 
He  stumbles  and  bolts,  and  his  staggers  are  jerky  ; 
He  sprawls  all  around  like  a  spavined  hen-turkey. 


The  Poor  Poet's  Pegasus.  1 1 5 

He's  into  all  fields,  knocking  over  spectators, 
With  elephant  feet  digging  all  men's  potatoes ; 
All  my  neighbor's  fences  he  jumps  or  he  grapples, 
And  with  my  head  bangs  off  the  best  of  their  apples. 

No  wonder  I  look  preternaturally  solemn, 

With  back-bone  bumped  sore  on  his  sharp  spinal  column 

In  some  trip  poetic,  and  tender  with  banging 

My  head  into  everything  over  it  hanging  ! 

Or  that  I  feel  sick,  on  some  grand  expedition 
Pitched  head  over  heels  and  a  thing  of  derision, 
Or  when  all  my  neighbors  look  madder  than  Persians 
At  damage  he  does  on  his  crazy  excursions ! 

A  horse  of  the  Muses,  like  that  in  my  stable, 
To  prize  as  a  gift  of  the  gods,  I'm  unable  ! 
His  work  is  too  ill-done  to  swap  it  for  treasure, 
And  his  back's  too  sharp  to  make  riding  a  pleasure. 

The  cynical  world  doubtless  dubs  me  "  Fanatic," 
Spurring  on  this  strange  steed  in  a  course  so  erratic, 
When,  heels  over  head,  mud  so  often  I  land  on, 
Yet  my  horse  infernal  I  can  not  abandon. 

I  can't  pasture  out  the  abominable  creature, 
For  dear  to  my  heart  is  each  comical  feature ! 
Though  only  a  damage  and  all  men  deride  him, 
As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  sometimes  bestride  him  ! 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Jan.  2nd,  1890. 


1 1 6  A  Fool's  Fate. 


A  FOOL'S  FATE. 

There  was  a  fool,  a  great  big  fool,  who  into  trouble  fell, 
And  every  earthly  reason  was,  he  liked  the  girls  so  well ; 
For  if  he  saw  a  pretty  face,  it  drew  him  o'er. the  road, 
As  onions  draw  an  Irishman,  or  beetle-bugs  a  toad  ! 

Whenever  he  went  on  the  street,  he  surely  tried  to  flirt, 
And,  as  a  certain  consequence,  was  always  getting  hurt. 
A  few  of  his  adventures  now  I  purpose  to  relate, 
In  hope  of  warning  others  ere  eternally  to  late. 

One  day  he  went  out  walking  in  a  muddy  country  lane ; 
The  road  was  soft,  the  ditches  full,  there'd  been  a  heavy 

rain. 

He  saw  a  pretty  girl ;  she  smiled  ;  he  blindly  made  a  rush, 
And,  slipping,  tumbled  in  the  ditch  and  drank  a  quart  of 

slush  ! 

Another  time,  when  on  the  street,  upon  the  second  floor 
He  spied  a  face  that  hit  him  worse  than  any  had  before. 
While  gazing  up  at  her  with  all  his  eyes,  and  heart,  and 

soul, 
He  walked  into  a  coal-hole,  plump  upon  a  heap  of  coal ! 


A  Fool's  Fate.  1 1 7 

When  he  got  out,  he  looked  like  some  coal-heaver  in 
disguise; 

He'd  hit  his  head  upon  a  brick  and  buttoned  up  his  eyes, 

For  he  went  down  through  crosswise,  a  proceeding  some 
what  wrong, 

Scraping  a  peeling  off  his  nose  at  least  four  inches  long. 

But,  alas !  he  learned  no  wisdom  from  this  melancholy  fate, 
And  did  the  same  thing  once  again,  for,  to  the  truth 

relate, 

He  three  weeks  afterward  beheld  another  face  above, 
And  once  again  the  poor  fool  fell  most  awfully  in  love  ! 

Again  he  walked  as  in  a  dream,  not  seeing  where  he  went, 
And  again  no  guardian  angel  her  kind,  saving  influence 

lent ; 

He  stepped  on  a  banana-skin,  and  on  the  walk  beneath 
He  sat  down  with  such  emphasis  he  loosened  all  his  teeth  ! 

One  time  he  saw  a  pretty  flirt  who,  turning,  winked  her  eye; 
He  rushed  off  almost  crazy  just  to  think  he  couldn't  fly, 
But  he  met  an  iron  Chinaman,  a  horse's  hitching-post, 
And  got   his  stomach  butted  till  he   'most  gave  up  the 
ghost  ! 

And  so  his  bad  luck  followed  him,  it  always  happened  so  ; 
He  always  got  into  a  scrape  each  time  he  played  the  beau. 
One  time  a  girl's  horse  kicked  him  and  made  four  bones 

in  his  leg, 
And  one  girl  yanked  his  ear  until  the  sinner  had  to  beg  ! 


1 1 8  A  Fool's  Fate. 

One  angry  lover  batted  him  till  he  looked  rather  queer, 
With  his  old  proboscis  canted  over  toward  his  larboard  ear ! 
One  savage  father  flung  him  through  the  door  so  mighty 

hard 
That  he  landed  in  the  cistern  on  his  head,  in  the  back 

yard  ! 

One  great  big  brother  gave  his  head  and  heels  an  awful 

turn, 
And,  wrong  end  upward,  used  him  like  the  dasher  of  a 

churn  ! 

A  raging  husband  chewed  his  ear,  and  then  nnhung  his  jaw, 
And  in  a  breach-of-promise  case  he  lost  his  all  at  law  ! 

A  would-be  bridegroom  kicked  his  shins  till  they  were  raw 

and  sore; 
Another  took  him  for  a  mop  and  with  him  scrubbed  the 

floor! 
One  heartless  damsel  stole  his  watch  and  pocket-book,  and 

fled; 
One  scratched  him  till  our  country's  flag  is  no  more  striped 

with  red  ! 

And  when  once  more  -he  got  engaged,  upon  his  wedding 

day, 

With  a  big,  one-eyed  Dutchman  his  intended  ran  away  ! 
Then  he  desired  no  more  of  life  and  so,  preferring  death, 
He   hitched  a  halter  on  a  beam   and    yanked   away  his 

breath  ! 


A  Fool's  Fate.  1 19 

Now,  all  you  fools  who  read  this  tale,  mark  well  this  fool 

of  mine, 
And  just  look  out  for  mischief  when  you  see  a  girl's  eye 

shine  ! 

So  may  you  shun  these  accidents,  of  which  the  Muses  sing, 
And  never,  like  him,   end  your  life  by  jumping  down  a 

string. 

Monmoitth  Ridge,  Me.,  May  i6th,  1884. 


1 20  Advice  to  the  Boys. 


ADVICE  TO  THE  BOYS. 

Of  all  queer  things  on  the  earth  below, 

Which  you  find  as  around  you  rove, 
For  foolishness  nothing  can  stand  a  show 

With  a  fellow  that's  dead  in  love. 

He  sighs  like  the  bellows  of  a  blacksmith's  shop, 

He  stands  and  stares  at  the  moon ; 
He  talks  of  his  dear  like  he  never  would  stop, 

And  he  acts  like  a  crazy  old  loon. 

He  never  has  a  thought  of  the  cares  of  life, 

And  hash  never  enters  his  mind, 
For  he  thinks,  if  only  he  captures  a  wife, 

They  can  both  of  them  live  on  wind.  . 

In  short,  he  acts  like  a  double-dyed  fool, 

A  natural,  who  doesn't  know  beans, 
And  is  soft  as  mush  till  his  head  gets  cool, 

Or  he  finds  what  a  family  means. 

But  don't  make  fun  of  the  fellows  in  love, 

For  maidens  all  hearts  will  steal, 
And  you  never  will  know,  till  your  own  shall  move, 

How  very  like  fools  they  feel. 


Advice  to  the  Boys.  1 2 1 

So  let  them  be  soft  as  a  well-cooked  squash, 

Or  the  dough  on  the  pantry  shelf, 
For  ten  to  one,  when  you're  some  girl's  mash, 

You  will  be  just  as  bad  yourself. 
Long  Island,  Me.,  Dec.  qth,  1886. 


122  The  Measure  of  All  Things. 


THE  MEASURE  OF  ALL  THINGS. 

Wise  and  wicked  the  world  is  growing, 

The  honest  and  simple  go  to  the  wall ; 
None  care  how  a  man's  life  is  going, 

If  he's  successful,  why,  that  is  all. 
Guilt  as  black  as  the  source  of  evil 

Counts  for  a  naught  in  these  latter  days ; 
None  ask  if  you  are  saint  or  devil, 

When  your  efforts  success  repays. 

Raise  yourself,  kick  over  your  neighbor, 

You  can  climb  up  by  those  knocked  down  ; 
If  you  win  through  the  meanest  labor, 

You  are  the  best  man  about  the  town. 
Right  and  wrong  are  fast  changing  places ; 

The  greatest  evil  is  being  poor, 
Truth  and  poverty  are  disgraces  ; 

Guilt  successful  is  goodness,  sure  ! 

Get  you  money  and  get  you  honor, 
Beg  them,  steal  them,  no  matter  how. 

If  you  miss  them,  you  are  a  goner ; 
If  you  gain  them,  all  heads  will  bow. 


The  Measure  of  AIL  Things.  123 

People  judge  you  by  your  achieving, 
Not  the  way  that  the  thing  is  gained  ; 

Do  it  by  lying,  cheating  and  thieving, 
No  matter  how,  if  the  end's  attained  ! 

Get  you  riches  and  win  successes ; 

Crimes  successful  to  honors  grow  ! 
Smash  the  decalogue  all  to  pieces, 

Poverty  is  the  worst  vice,  you  know. 
Stay  at  the  bottom,  and  you  are  a  sinner, 

Rise  by  any  means,  you  are  a  saint ; 
Number  One  care  for ;  if  you  are  the  winner, 

Of  your  record  there's  no  complaint ! 

You  are  good  as  you  meet  successes, 

And  if  fortune  your  steps  attend, 
You  are  prized,  and  will  meet  caresses, 

If  you  always  attain  your  end. 
Only  one  thing  makes  good  or  evil ; 

By  it  men  judge  beyond  redress, 
Send  you  to  heaven  or  to  the  devil ; 

The  measure  of  all  things  is  success  ! 

Port  Republic,  N.  /.,  March  24th,  1886. 


1 24  Kissing  in  the  Dark. 


KISSING  IN  THE  DARK. 

My  heart  is  sad  and  heavy, 

M-y  trials  sore  oppress  ; 
Perhaps  I  should  feel  better, 

If  I  should  just  confess  ! 

I  have  severely  suffered, 

As  you  at  once  will  find, 
Soon  as  I  come  to  tell  you 

What  weighs  upon  my  mind. 

You  must  know  I  am  bashful, 
And  don't  know  how  to  spark, 

And  what  caused  all  my  trouble 
Was  kissing  in  the  dark. 

I  never  had  been  courting, 

But  last  night  thought  I'd  start, 

And  call  upon  a  lady 

Whose  beauty  broke  my  heart. 

No -wonder  it  felt  shaky 

The  damsel's  house  before, 
And  flew  round  like  a  button 

Upon  a  cellar  door  ! 


Kissing  in  the  Dark.  125 

My  face  shone  like  a  sunset, 

And  fairly  scorched  my  hair  ! 
I  wished,  when  she  was  coming, 

I  might  die  then  and  there. 

She  asked  me  to  the  parlor, 

And  we  were  all  alone. 
After  a  little  season 

I  had  some  bolder  grown. 

At  last  I  got  quite  near  her, 

Though  scared  beyond  a  doubt. 
Somehow  —  I  can't  explain  it  — 

The  parlor  lamp  went  out. 

My  courage  then  rose  higher, 

And,  filled  with  lover's  bliss, 
I  had  the  cheek  to  ask  her 

If  I  might  have  a  kiss. 

At  first  she  told  me,  "  No,  Sir  !  " 

But  soon  she  said  I  might ; 
If  then  she  could  have  seen  me 

I  should  have  died  of  fright ! 

I  stopped  a  while  in  terror, 

Then  thought  I'd  better  try 
And  kiss  her  in  the  darkness ;  — 

I  hit  her  in  the  eye! 


1 26  Kissing  in  the  Dark. 

That  made  me  somewhat  flustered, 

As  you  may  well  suppose, 
.    And  so,  when  next  I  tried  it, 
I  bit  her  on  the  nose. 

Then  I  became  more  flurried, 
But  once  more  waded  in  ; 

This  time  I  fared  no  better, 
I  only  lapped  her  chin. 

Then  in  my  desperation, 
About  half  dead  with  fear, 

I  made  another  trial, 

And  slobbered  in  her  ear. 

When  next  I  tried  it,  judging 
From  the  way  my  nose  feels, 

I  must  have  gone  about  it 
Like  someone  spearing  eels. 

So  hard  it  punched  her  forehead 
That  still  it  sidewise  hangs, 

And  all  the  effort  gained  me 
Was  just  a  chew  of  bangs. 

The  last  time  I  attempted, 

I  didn't  hit  at  all, 
But  smacked  her  father's  picture 

Hung  on  the  parlor  wall. 


Kissing  in  the  Dark.  127 


In  agony  of  terror, 
I  bolted  out  of  that ; 

I  never  stopped  for  manners, 
Or  even  for  my  hat ! 

The  sore  nose  and  the  frighting 

Of  that  experience, 
I  feel  quite  sure,  have  taught  me 

A  little  common-sense  ! 

And  if,  a  thing  most  doubtful, 
Again  I  try  to  spark, 

I  never  will  be  guilty 
Of  kissing  in  the  dark  ! 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  Feb.  qt/t,  1886. 


128  A  Courting  Experience. 


A  COURTING  EXPERIENCE. 

Jane  Jones  was  acknowledged  the  Boobytown  belle, 

And  by  her  great  beauty  was  known  ; 
She'd  a  form  like  a  scarecrow,  as  many  could  tell, 

And  feet  hippopotamus  grown. 

She'd  a  nose  like  a  coffee-pot  after  a  ride 

Of  a  mile  at  the  tail  of  a  dog, 
A  mouth  where  old  Mammoth  Cave  surely  could  hide, 

And  teeth  like  burnt  stumps  in  a  bog. 

Sam  Stubbs  was  a  youth  who  was  crushed  by  her  charms, 

And  he,  too,  was  handsome  withal, 
But  his  hair  was  so  red  when  he  passed  by  the  farms 

In  the  night,  all  the  roosters  would  squall. 

He'd  a  wart  on  his  nose  and  a  mole  on  his  chin, 

And  a  spavin  he  had  on  each  knee. 
He  walked  like  a  cripple  encumbered  with  gin, 

And  he'd  eyes  like  a  "  Heathen  Chinee." 

Old  Jones  was  a  monster  with  heart  like  a  flint, 

And,  when  he  discovered  the  mash, 
He  looked  at  poor  Sam  with  a  horrible  squint, 

That  stove  his  bright  hopes  into  smash. 


A  Courting  Experience.  1 29 

He  told  him  to  never  come  into  his  house, 

And  to  the  fair  Jane  not  to  speak ; 
If  he  did  he  would  crack  him  as  he  would  a  louse, 

And  kick  him  half-way  through  next  week. 

But  Jane  told  poor  Sammy  she'd  ever  be  true, 

And  asked  him  to  come  Sunday  night. 
Her  dad  went  to  bed  soon  as  daylight  was  through  ; 

When  safe  she  would  blow  out  the  light. 

The  time  came,  the  darkness  was  dreadful  and  black ; 

The  old  man  went  early  to  bed, 
With  salve  on  his  corns,  mustard  paste  on  his  back, 

And  snored  fit  to  waken  the  dead. 

Jane  blew  out  the  lamp,  Sam  the  signal  obeyed, 

And  started  at  two-forty  gait ; 
The  wart  on  his  nose  flopped  with  each  step  he  made  ; 

His  hair  glowed  like  comet  of  fate. 

He  entered  the  house,  kissed  her  mouth  full  of  snags,. 

As  he  took  the  fair  Jane  on  his  knees ; 
Her  breath  floated  round  like  the  smell  of  old  rags, 

Or  the  odor  of  Limberger  cheese. 

Alas,  for  his  joy  !     In  the  midst  of  his  bliss, 

That  wart  took  poor  Jane  in  the  eye, 
As  Sam  struggled  hard  for  another  sweet  kiss, 

And  she  squealed  out  a  small,  squeaky  cry. 


1 30  A  Courting  Experience. 

Her  dad  woke  in  terror,  and,  scared  at  the  blaze 

That  shone  from  Sam's  fiery  hair, 
He  sprang  up  and  dressed  in  the  direst  amaze 

For  he  thought  he  saw  flames  in  the  air. 

He  rushed  for  the  kitchen,  and  Sam  turned  to  run, 

But,  just  as  he  plunged  through  the  door, 
Old  Jones  saw  the  trouble  and  kicked  him  like  fun 

With  the  toe  of  his  big  twenty-four  ! 

Sam  rose  like  a  comet,  some  ten  feet  or  less, 

And  fell  with  a  thundering  crash ; 
He  struck  on  some  pickets,  how  hard  you  can  guess, 

For  he  stove  the  fence  all  into  smash. 

He  whirled  in  the  air  like  a  skilled  acrobat, 

Ere  striking  the  pickets  beneath  ; 
He  rose  with  spine  punched  through  the  crown  of  his  hat, 

And  the  door-yard  was  all  full  of  teeth ! 

He  sped  from  the  spot  with  all  speed  that  he  had, 

But  his  gait  it  was  halting  and  jerky. 
That  wart  hung  straight  downward,  dejected  and  sad, 

And  he  limped  like  a  setting  hen-turkey. 

As  he  passed  o'er  the  hilltop,  the  sky  seemed  to  glow 

Like  a  sunset,  reflecting  his  hair. 
.Even  now,  as  he  tells  the  sad  tale  of  his  woe, 

No  wonder  he  wishes  to  swear. 


A  Courting  Experience.  1 3 1 

The  dose  was  sufficient ;  no  more  suitors  came, 

Sam  was  so  unfortunate  there. 
He  walks  with  two  canes  to  this  day,  he's  so  lame, 

And  he  hasn't  a  tooth  he  can  spare. 

Monmouth  Ridge,  Me.,  May  ijth,  1884. 


132  A  Problem. 


A  PROBLEM. 

I  had  a  dream  quite  funny, 

One  night  when  work  was  done; 

I  thought  a  man  was  asking 
Advice  about  his  son. 

I  dreamed  he  walked  the  village, 

And  said  in  eager  fret, 
"What  shall  I  do  with  Willie?" 

To  all  the  girls  he  met. 

The  organist  he  questioned, 
She  gave  him  this  reply  : 

"  I'd  use  him  for  a  scarecrow  ; 
The  birds  would  surely  fly." 

The  fair,  coquettish  widow, 

In  her  becoming  crape, 
Said,   "  Put  him  in  the  circus 

In  place  of  Barnum's  ape." 

The  milliner's  clerk  answered, 
Hearing  his  question  faint, 

"  He  is  so  green,  I'd  grind  him 
And  make  him  into  paint." 


A  Problem.  133 

The  young  post-mistress  told  him, 

(For  still  the  vision  ran  on,) 
"  The  boy's  so  awful  brassy, 

I'd  cast  him  into  cannon." 

The  school-ma'am  quickly  answered, 

With  looks  of  eager  hope, 
"  He  is  as  soft  as  tallow  ; 

I'd  stir  him  into  soap." 

My  room  door  loudly  slamming 

Soon  ended  all  this  fret, 
So  what  to  do  with  Willie 

Is  undecided  yet. 

But  all  you  other  Willies, 

Of  every  age  and  name, 
Who  think  you're  lady-killers, 

Are  rated  just  the  same  ! 

So  when  the  girls  you're  chasing, 

And  acting  out  the  fop, 
Think  what  they  said  of  this  one, 

And  you'll  conclude  to  stop. 

North  Fayette,  Ale.,  March  qlh,  1887. 


1 34  After  the  CJiiircli  Fair. 


AFTER  THE  CHURCH  FAIR. 

Jim  Jones  went  home  with  Polly  Ann  Mower, 

And  I  tell  you  he  felt  nice, 
When  he  elbowed  her  out  of  the  meeting-house  door, 

But  he  never  once  thought  of  the  ice. 

Yet  the  street  was  full  of  water  and  slop. 

That  had  frozen  up  during  the  day, 
But  the  night  was  dark,  and  it  didn't  show  up 

As  they  started  on  their  homeward  way. 

Jim  was  whispering  something  tender  and  low, 

And  Polly  was  smiling  and  sweet, 
So  they  never  once  looked  where  they  had  to  go 

Down  the  icy,  slippery  street. 

Soon  they  struck  a  spot  all  glassy  and  smooth, 

And  their  feet  they  couldn't  steer, 
And  down  on  his  head  came  the  gay,  happy  youth, 

While  Polly  sat  down  on  his  ear. 

Jim's  number  tens  kicked  at  the  planet  Mars, 

And  Polly's  sailed  everywhere, 
And  the  place  was  hid  from  the  light  of  the  stars 

By  the  feet  floating  round  in  the  air. 


After  the  Church  Fair.  1 3  5 

They  both  crawled  off  from  the  ice  on  their  knees, 

And  sorrowfully  limped  away, 
But  many  a  groan  floated  off  on  the  breeze, 

For  they  didn't  feel  half  so  gay. 

The  next  day  a  traveler  found  the  spot 
Strewn  with  fragments  and  pools  of  gore  ; 

It  looked  like  the  place  a  battle  was  fought, 
Or  the  wreck  of  a  dry  goods  store. 

When  Polly  went  down  like  a  mountain  pine 

On  the  head  of  the  youth  beneath, 
She  did  it  so  hard  she  shortened  her  spine, 

And  jarred  out  half  of  her  teeth. 

Poor  Jim  had  hit  on  the  back  of  his  head, 

While  Polly's  weight  smashed  his  nose 
And  skinned  four  inches  of  it  —  oh,  how  it  bled  ! 

And  he  split  his  new  pair  of —  clothes  ! 

The  match  is  off  since  that  dismal  wreck ; 

Jim  don't  court  Polly  nowadays? 
She  doesn't  want  a  beau  that  will  break  her  neck, 

He  a  girl  that  sits  on  his  face  ! 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  Feb.  gth,  1886. 


1 36  Men  and  Places. 


MEN  AND  PLACES. 

This  world  is  a  case  full  of  holes  of  all  sizes 

And  shapes,  big  and  little,  round,  three-cornered,  square, 

And  men  are  shaped  likewise  ;  so  trouble  arises 
When  one  strikes  a  hole  he  don't  fit  to  a  hair. 

Yet  people  are  always  mistaking  their  places, 

Mistaking  their  callings,  their  powers,  their  souls ; 

And  much  of  the  wrong  that  our  planet  disgraces 
Is  caused  by  men  getting  in  ill-fitting  holes. 

Ofttimes  a  man's  mind  flies  a  decade  before  him, 
And  grasps  a  great  truth  and  proclaims  it  to  all, 

But  meets  hate  and  scorn  ;  e'en  his  friends  try  to  floor  him, 
He's  a  man  in  a  hole  many  sizes  too  small. 

Many  simple  old  souls  find  the  world  rather  tricky, 

And  by  their  own  honesty  go  to  the  wall. 
Their  angles  keep  catching,  they  find  life's  road  sticky, 

Because  they're  square  men  in  round  holes,  that  is  all. 

Some  others  are  soapy  and  have  no  opinions, 

Say,   "yes,  yes,"   to  all  and,   "amen,"   to  the  whole, 

But  people  despise  the  poor,  sycophant  minions; 
Such  a  one's  a  round  man  in  a  three-cornered  hole. 


Men  and  Places.  137 

Sometimes  paltry  men  are  exalted  to  power 
And  raised  to  positions  they  never  could  fill, 

They  soon  are  the  scorn  and  contempt  of  the  hour ; 
Little  men  in  big  holes  never  fiil  up  the  bill. 

A  good  farmer  often  becomes  a  poor  preacher, 
A  good  smith  turns  into  a  law-spouting  ape, 

A  good  workman  spoils  changing  into  a  teacher; 
All  are  stuck  into  holes  that  are  not  the  right  shape. 

There's  a  hole  that  will  fit  e'en  the  oddest-shaped  human, 
There  a  man  that  will  fill  every  hole  in  the  case, 

(Though  now  a  great  many  are  needing  a  new  man  ;) 
So  each  should  be  careful  to  find  the  right  place. 

Young  men,  ponder  well  ere  you  choose  occupations; 

Finding  places  in  life  will  require  much  wit. 
Endeavor  to  reach  your  appropriate  stations, 

And  try  and  get  into  the  holes  that  you  fit. 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  March  isf,  1886. 


FLOWER  SONGS 


1 40  Pyxie. 


PYXIE. 

There's  a  fresh  and  a  sweet  tradition  of  the  birth  of  the 
fairy  flower 

That  comes  in  the  early  spring-time  to  bloom  in  the  leaf 
less  bower, 

And  opens  its  star-like  blossoms  with  a  promise  of  brighter 
skies, 

To  come  with  the  nearing  summer,  in  its  myriad  upturned 
eyes. 

When  I  gaze  on  the  tiny  tokens  of  a  softened  and  buried 

woe, 

My  fancy  flies  with  the  legend  to  the  dim  of  the  long  ago, 
And  my  senses  drink  of  a  sweetness,  a  sadness  that's  not 

of  earth, 
As  my  mind  goes  in  dream  or  vision  to  the  morn  of  the 

floweret's  birth. 

A  dell  bathed  in  silver  brightness  of  moonlight  appears  to 

me, 
The  dim,   cool  shadows   surrounding   cast  by   bordering 

shrub  and  tree ; 

I  hear  on  the  passing  zephyrs  a  melody  sad  arise, 
Soft,   plaintive,   melting  and   tender,   and  low  as  a  wild 

reed's  sighs. 


Pyxie.  1 4 1 

And,  lo  !  in  the  fair,  pale  moonlight,   in   the  heart  of  the 

inmost  dell, 
On   a  bier  made  of  tiny  flowers,   where  the   whitest    of 

moonbeams  dwell, 

Lies  a  motionless,  lifeless  figure  as  pale  as  the  lilies  fair, 
And  spotless  as  pure  white  snowflakes  that  float  on  the 

winter  air. 

White-robed  on  her  flowery  pillow,  asleep  in  her  final  sleep, 
Is  the  form  of  a  fallen  fairy,  and  round  it  her  sisters  weep ; 
A  circle  of  lovely  figures  in  gauziest  whiteness  dressed, 
Pure,  beauteous,  though  far  too  tiny  to  gaze  o'er  a  linnet's 
crest. 

Though  low  as  the  grasses'  murmur,  in  my  vision  there 

comes  to  me 
The  soft  and  the  wondrous  sweetness  of  their  wild,  sad 

melody, 
And  it  seems  like  a  song  from  heaven,  their  requiem  o'er 

the  dead, 
Though  mortal   ears  comprehend   not  the  words  by  the 

fairies  said. 

The  low,  sad  chant  of  the  mourners  in  cadences  dies  away, 
And  the  fay  and  her  bier  of  flowers  sink  into  the  earth  for 

aye, 
The  fairy  sisterhoods  vanish ;  skies  glow  with  the  coming 

sun  ; 
The  moonlight  fades  from  the  grasses,  and  the  funeral  rites 

are  done. 


142  Pyxie. 

The  rays  of  the  early  morning  dart  in  through  the  twilight 

gloom 

And  glitter  upon  the  dew-drops  that  lie  on  the  fairy's  tomb, 
And  where'er  a  fairy's  tear-drop  has  fallen  around  the  bier, 
The  blossoms  of  star-eyed  pyxie  in  beauty  serene  appear. 

And  whene'er  the  sweet  white  flowers  in  spring-time  awake 

again, 
I  think  of  the  drops  of  anguish  that  gave  the  pure  buds  to 

men. 
I  love  the  sweet  pyxie-blossoms  and    long   for  them  to 

appear, 

Yet  I  see  in  each  starry  flower  a  sorrowing  fairy's  tear. 
North  Fayette,  Me.,  Apr.  25th,  1887. 


Daisies.  143 


DAISIES. 

The  daisies  are  white  on  the  hillside, 

They  float  on  the  waves  of  the  grass, 
The  foam  on  those  billows  of  verdure 

That  swell  as  the  scented  winds  pass. 
They  are  touched  by  the  light,  unseen  fingers 

Of  the  breezes  in  loving  caress, 
And  their  eyes,  pure  and  tender,  look  upward 

To  Heaven's  blue  o'erarching  to  bless. 

They  rocked  on  the  waves  of  the  grasses, 

As  they  float  on  their  billows  to-day, 
In  the  days  of  a  long-vanished  summer, 

Departed  forever  and  aye ; 
They  nodded  the  same  on  the  hillside, 

And  thankfully  bowed  to  the  skies, 
Whence  the  sunlight  and  shower  descended 

To  gladden  their  innocent  eyes. 


1 44  Daisies. 

But  the  flowers  of  my  life,  then  in  blossom, 

With  the  summers  come  never  again, 
They  withered  and  faded  forever, 

Though  the  field-daisies  blossom  as  then. 
That  summer  I  looked  on  them  gladly, 

But  sadly  I  view  them  to-day ; 
Earth's  flowers  are  renewed  in  their  season, 

Life's,  once  gone,  have  vanished  for  aye. 

West  Alt.  Vernon,  Me.,  July  ijth,  1886. 


Wild  Roses.  145 


WILD  ROSES. 

Wild  roses  bloom  by  the  brooklet's  side, 

Where  it  sleeps  in  a  deep,  dark  pool, 
And  the  waving  trees  of  the  forest  hide 

Fresh  moss  in  their  shadows  cool. 
They  star  the  billowy  banks  of  green, 

Each  nodding  its  calyx  bright, 
As  the  wandering  breezes  glide  in  between 

Caressing  with  touch  so  light. 

No  gaudy  flower  from  a  florist's  stand, 

No  pampered  and  scentless  thing, 
But  a  blossom  fresh  as  from  God's  own  hand, 

Drinking  deep  from  the  crystal  spring, 
With  a  heart  like  the  heart  of  a  shell  of  pearl 

Down  under  the  cool,  green  sea, 
As  bright  as  the  cheek  of  a  blushing  girl 

In  her  maidenly  modesty. 


146  Wild  Roses. 

But  rude  hands,  touching  the  slender  stem, 

May  scatter  the  leaves  it  bore, 
And  the  fair  flower,  pure  as  a  priceless  gem, 

Lie  shattered  forevermore. 
Yet  the  careless  hand  and  the  selfish  soul 

Spoil  the  blossoms  of  light  and  joy ; 
And,  alas  !  wild  roses  are  not  the  whole 

That  a  rude  touch  can  destroy. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Aug.  fjtk,  1888. 


May-Flowers,  1 47 


MAY-FLOWERS. 

There's  a  faint  yet  sweet  perfume  that  floats  in  the  air 
On  the  cold,  chilling  breezes  of  earliest  May, 

Ere  the  warm  zephyrs  call  Summer's  flowerets  fair 
From  out  the  dark  earth  to  adorn  her  bright  way. 

But  search  for  the  source  of  that  odor  so  sweet 

At  a  short  distance  from  you,  and  naught  can  you  find, 

But  'mid  the  sere  grasses  and  leaves  at  your  feet 

Bloom  the  sweet  flowers  unnoticed  that  freshen  the  wind. 

Beneath  the  dead  leaves  of  a  Summer  that's  past, 

On  the  cold  earth  just  waking  from  Winter's  long  sleep, 

Under  rubbish  heaped  on  them  by  each  chilling  blast, 
The  modest  green  leaves  of  the  May-flower  creep. 

And  close  underneath  them,  concealed  from  the  eye 
Of  the  careless  observer,  are  odorous  cells, 

That  yield  their  sweet  fragrance  as  hidden  they  lie, 
In  lovely  pink  clusters,  the  May-flower  bells. 

Thus  oft  in  life's  journey  an  influence  sweet, 
Perfuming  the  cold,  barren  desert  of  earth, 

Floats  around  us  from  buds  lying  close  at  our  feet, 
While  we  look  far  away  for  the  blossom  of  worth. 


148  May-Flowers. 

Beneath  the  sere  leaves,  the  dead  hopes  of  the  past, 
In  the  desert  of  life  all  unnoticed  oft  lie, 

Under  wrecks  scattered  by  disappointment's  wild  blast, 
The  sweet  human  May-flowers  so  blindly  passed  by. 

Their  modest  air  hides  the  sweet  blossoms  of  deeds, 
And  so  we  pass  by  them  with  never  a  thought, 

Seeking  flowerets  where  clusters  of  ill-smelling  weeds 
By  their  rank,  leafy  stalks  our  attention  have  caught. 

Let  us  search  out  the  sweet  buds  that  bloom  in  our  way, 
And  pluck  them  in  love  on  our  bosoms  to  shine, 

And  cherish  them  fondly  as  long  as  we  may. 

God  bless  human  May-flowers,  and  those  on  the  vine  ! 

Fayette,  Me.,  May  i8th,  1885. 


Buttercups.  149 


BUTTERCUPS. 

The  buttercups  nodded  in  sunshine, 

As  their  buds  to  the  light  unrolled  ; 
The  wandering  breezes  kissed  them 

On  their  trembling  crowns  of  gold  ; 
The  green  leaves  rustled  above  them 

And  dappled  the  grass  with  shade, 
On  that  day  of  a  vanished  summer, 

As  with  them  a  fair  child  played. 

The  buttercups  nod  in  the  sunshine 

The  same  as  a  year  ago  ; 
They  have  slept  through  the  long,  cold  winter, 

To  wake  when  the  soft  winds  blow ; 
Birds  sing  and  leaves  shake  above  them, 

And  the  green  earth  where  they  wave, 
But  their  playmate  will  never  waken ; 

They  bloom  on  the  fair  child's  grave. 

Gordon  Hill,  Me.,  June  loth,  1886. 


Scriptural  &  Religious  Poems 


1 5  2  Bartimeus. 


BARTIMEUS.     - 

In  the  days  now  gone  forever, 
In  the  land  the  Saviour  walked  in, 
Dawned  a  day  still  unforgotten, 
Dawned  in  beauty  o'er  a  landscape 
Fairer  than  a  poet's  fancies, 
Fairer  than  an  artist's  dreamings, 
Dawned  to  show  a  deed  of  mercy 
That  should  fill  the  world  with  wonder. 

Jericho,  the  mighty  city, 
Sat  arrayed  in  all  her  beauty, 
Bathed  in  floods  of  glowing  sunlight, 
Flinging  back  the  day-god's  splendor 
In  a  thousand  bright  reflections 
From  her  turrets,  domes  and  towers, 
Burnished  by  the  summer  sunshine, 
Till  they  seemed  of  gold  the  purest. 


Bartimeus. 

Round  about  that  teeming  city, 
Like  the  setting  of  a  jewel, 
Lay  the  green  fields,  fair  and  fertile, 
Covered  with  the  waving  grasses 
Intermixed  with  fairer  flowers, 
That  filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance, 
And  from  many  a  wayside  shade-tree 
Happy  birds  their  songs  were  pouring. 

Sadly  by  the  busy  roadside, 
Just  without  the  city  gateway, 
'Mid  that  scene  of  light  and  beauty, 
With  his  head  bowed  in  dejection, 
With  his  beard  unkempt  and  streaming 
Wild  upon  the  summer  breezes, 
Asking  alms  of  all  who  passed  him, 
Sat  the  beggar,  blind  Bartimeus. 

Naught  to  him  were  all  the  beauties 
Lavished  on  that  lovely  landscape ; 
Never  had  his  eyes  beheld  them  ; 
And  the  happy  birds  above  him 
Seemed  to  mock  his  situation, 
Mock  the  homeless,  friendless  beggar, 
With  his  poverty  to  mock  him, 
As  he  sat  there  all  unnoticed. 


154  Bartimeus. 

Suddenly  from  out  the  city, 
Crowding  through  the  open  gateway, 
Down  the  highway  broad  and  sunny, 
Came  an  eager  throng  of  people, 
But  not  one  the  beggar  noticed ; 
Not  a  coin  bestowed  upon  him 
Cheered  the  suffering  and  sightless, 
Cheered  the  heart  of  blind  Bartimeus. 

There  he  sat  with  grey  hair  streaming, 
Wild,  and  matted,  and  neglected, 
With  his  torn  and  tattered  garments 
Scarcely  shielding  from  the  sunlight, 
With  his  form  by  hunger  wasted, 
Piteously  his  sightless  eyeballs 
Turning  as  he  asked  assistance. 

Heeding  not,  they  still  were  passing, 

And  he  turned  away  despairing; 

His  heart  filled  with  bitter  sadness, 

And  the  scalding  tears  descended 

As  he  felt  himself  unnoticed 

And  his  sorest  needs  neglected  ; 

But  a  sudden  hope  thrilled  through  him, 

As  he  heard  the  Master's  accents. 


Bartimeus.  1 5  5 

Then  his  voice  he  straightway  lifted, 
Crying  out  amid  the  clamor 
Of  the  rabble  all  unheeding, 
Crying  out  in  wild  entreaty, 
As  the  throng  still  hurried  forward, 
Crying  out  in  tones  beseeching 
The  one  anguished  supplication, 
"  Jesus,  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me  !  " 

"  Hold  thy  peace  !  "  the  people  answered, 
Viewing  him  with  looks  disdainful, 
As  they  scornfully  passed  by  him, 
But  the  more  his  voice  he  lifted  ; 
Louder  grew  the  tones  entreating, 
And  above  the  noise  and  tumult 
The  wild  prayer  came  to  the  Master, 
"Jesus,  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me  !  " 

Then  in  pity  turned  the  Saviour, 
With  a  smile  of  heavenly  beauty 
On  His  face  of  loving  mildness, 
Saying  to  the  crowd  that  followed 
Closely  on  His  steps  departing 
From  the  lovely  eastern  city, 
For  His  heart  o'erflowed  with  mercy 
For  the  beggar,    "  Bring  him  hither  !  " 


156  Bartimeus. 

Flinging  down  his  tattered  garment, 
Straightway  rose  up  blind  Bartimeus, 
And  with  eager  footsteps  hastened, 
Through  the  throng  that  now  divided, 
To  where  still  the  Master  waited  ; 
And  with  hope  and  fear  commingled, 
In  his  heart  a  prayer  unspoken, 
Tremblingly  he  stood  before  Him. 

Then  the  saintly  Man  of  Sorrows 
Smiled  again  upon  the  beggar, 
Knowing  all  his  great  desire, 
All  his  fear  and  all  his  trembling, 
Knowing  all  the  faith  within  him, 
Spoke  again  in  mildest  accents, 
As  the  blind  man  bowed  before  Him, 
Saying  unto  him,   "  What  would'st  thou?  " 

Eagerly  Bartimeus  answered, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  fearing, 
Hoping  his  wish  might  be  granted, 
Fearing  bitter  disappointment, 
Answered  without  stop  or  staying, 
Answered  trembling  with  excitement, 
All  his  eager  soul  outpouring, 
"  Lord,  that  I  might  have  my  eyesight !  " 


Bartimeus.  157 

To  the  Master's  brow  compassion 

Added  yet  another  beauty, 

And  his  sinless  face  grew  brighter 

With  the  glowing  look  of  mercy, 

And  in  tones  of  love  and  pity, 

The  Great  Teacher,  pure  and  holy, 

Spoke  the  words  of  blessed  import, 

"Go  thy  way,  thy  faith  hath  healed  thee." 

Like  a  flash  the  eyes  were  opened 
That  had  never  seen  the  sunlight, 
And  the  scene  of  summer  splendor 
Dawned  on  the  awakened  vision 
Of  a  mind  that  had  in  darkness 
Lived  until  that  present  moment, 
Like  a  new-created  Eden, 
Or  a  blessed  dream  of  Heaven. 

Then  he  saw  the  city  glowing 
In  the  streaming  summer  sunshine, 
Saw  the  green  fields  decked  with  flowers, 
Saw  the  dark  and  distant  hill-tops, 
The  o'er-arching  blue  of  Heaven, 
Saw  the  throng  around  him  standing, 
And  amid  that  scene  of  beauty 
Christ's  face  beaming  like  an  angel's. 


158  Bartimeus. 

Fairer  than  his  fairest  dreamings, 
Nature's  works  around  were  scattered  ; 
Lovelier  than  aught  e'er  imagined, 
Jericho  loomed  up  behind  him  ; 
And  deep  gratitude  o'ercame  him, 
And  love  for  the  Great  Physician, 
Who  had  raised  the  cloud  of  darkness 
That  from  him  had  hidden  all  things. 

No  more  seemed  the  birds  to  mock  him 
With  his  wretched  life  of  sorrow, 
With  his  gloomy,  dark  existence, 
But  in  joy  they  sang  above  him  ; 
And  no  more  the  world  seemed  to  him 
Cold  and  cheerless  and  despairing, 
But  a  Paradise  of  beauty 
Fitted  for  the  angels'  dwelling. 

Out  from  Jericho  the  Master  • 

Went  His  way,  the  crowd  attending, 
Through  the  scene  of  summer  beauty, 
'Mid  the  songs  of  countless  birdlings; 
And  behind  in  fond  devotion, 
Gratitude  and  love  unbounded, 
Praising  God  for  all  His  blessings, 
Went  Bartimeus,  blind  no  longer. 

Fayette,  Me.,  June  loth, 


Now  I  Lay  Me.  1 59 


NOW  I  LAY  ME. 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  : 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep. 

If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 

I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 

My  mother  taught  me  at  her  knee 
Those  childlike  words  of  purity, 

And  bade  me  breathe  to  One  above 
That  prayer  for  His  protecting  love. 

Borne  backward  by  the  dear  old  rhyme, 
My  mind  flies  to  the  happy  time 

When  my  young  life  was  fresh  and  fair, 
Unshadowed  by  sin,  pain,  or  care. 

From  out  the  portals  of  the  past 

Fond  memories  come  crowding  fast, 

And  visions  bright  I  seem  to  see, 
Of  what  was,  but  no  more  shall  be. 

Again  I  see  my  mother's  face, 

And  feel  her  loving  arm's  embrace, 

As  when,  long  since,  beside  her  seat 
I  learned  those  lines  so  old  and  sweet. 


1 60  Now  I  Lay  Me. 

But  childhood's  time  has  passed  for  aye ; 

'Tis  years  since  thus  I  learned  to  pray, 
And  all  the  winding  ways  I've  trod 

Have  lead  me  farther  from  my  God. 

Oh  !  for  the  childish  lips  of  truth, 

That  framed  those  words  in  sinless  youth, 
"As,  kneeling  by  my  mother's  chair, 

I  learned  that  well-remembered  prayer  ! 

My  feet  have  turned  so  far  away, 
He  scarce  can  hear  me  when  I  pray, 

Yet,  though  sin's  waves  above  me  break, 
"  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take  !" 

Melrose,  Mass.,  Oct.  2ist,  1887. 


The  Tempest.  161 


THE  TEMPEST. 

Night  wrapped  the  sea's  broad  bosom.     Darkness  deep 

Hung  heavily  around.     No  golden  star 

Pierced  with  its  cheering  ray  the  inky  air. 

Over  the  billows  swept  the  roaring  gale 

And  lashed  them  into  fury;  high  they  leaped, 

Assaulting  heaven  in  impious  impotence, 

Flinging  their  white  spume  through  the  murky  skies, 

And  then  in  sullen  anger  falling  back 

Upon  the  waves  behind  them. 

Death  was  there, 

With  all  his  terrors ;  through  the  howling  night 
He  cleft  the  darkness  of  the  raging  storm 
With  tireless  pinion,  gloating  o'er  a  ship 
That  struggled  with  the  waters  and  the  gale, 
As  if  she  knew  the  precious  freight  she  bore. 

Fiercer  the  storm-wind  fought  her ;  higher  yet 

The  billows  rose  around  her ;  lower  still 

She  settled  in  the  water,  deeply  filled 

By  great  waves  breaking  o'er  her;  darker  yet 

The  night  became;  and  fainter  yet  the  hope 

Of  the  worn,  toiling  crew,  who  seemed  to  hear 

A  death-song  mingling  with  the  screaming  gale. 


1 62  The  Tempest. 

Through  the  wild  night  a  wailing,  anguished  plaint 

Rang  as  the  frightened  sailors  felt  the  end 

Of  all  things  earthly  drawing  on  apace, 

At  least  for  them.     From  their  faint,  failing  hearts, 

In  wild  beseeching,  came  the  pleading  cry, 

11  Master,  we  perish  here;  carest  thou  not?  " 

Then  the  calm  Sleeper  woke  from  quiet  sleep, 

And  calmly  round  on  the  wild  scene  He  gazed, 

The  terror-stricken  men,  the  raging  sea, 

Then  to  the  storm  said  calmly,   "  Peace ;  be  Still !  " 

The  loud  waves  heard  that  voice  and  sank  to  rest ; 
The  wild  winds  heard  it,  murmured  and  grew  still : 
Death  heard,  and  spread  his  dusky  wings  in  flight : 
The  clouds  divided  ;  sweetly  shone  the  stars 
On  the  sea's  breast,  reflecting  those  above; 
And  there  was  peace;  no  strife,  no  doubt,  no  fear, 
But  on  the  quiet  scene  there  reigned  a  night 
As  still,  as  fair,  as  peaceful  as  the  eves 
That  smiled  in  Eden  ere  the  fall  of  man  : 
There  was  a  calm. 

West  Mt.   Vernon,  Me.,  July  ibth,  1886. 


The  Prodigal's  Prayer.  163 


THE  PRODIGAL'S  PRAYER. 

Wandering  far  from  the  home  of  my  youth, 
With  naught  my  own  but  my  sorrow  and  ruth, 
Still  my  heart  cries  out  wherever  I  roam  ; 
Father,  oh,  Father  !  once  more  take  me  home  ! 

Far  have  I  wandered  from  right's  narrow  track, 
Almost  too  far  for  me  e'er  to  go  back, 
Yet  thou  dost  love  me  wherever  I  roam ; 
Father,  oh,  Father  !   once  more  take  me  home  ! 

Nothing  I  bring  from  the  world  and  its  strife, 
Nothing  I  have  but  the  wreck  of  my  life. 
Let  me  return  to  youth's  home  as  of  yore ; " 
Father,  oh,  Father  !  receive  me  once  more  ! 

Sin  is  around,  and  its  stains  are  on  me, 
Naught  that  is  good  in  my  life  can  I  see. 
Out  of  the  depths  do  I  cry  in  my  pain  ; 
Oh,  Father,  take  me  !  Receive  me  again  ! 

All  the  enticements  that  lured  me  away, 
Proved  hollow  snares  that  could  only  betray, 
False  beacons  set  on  life's  storm-beaten  shore ; 
From  the  wreck,  Father,  receive  me  once  more ! 


164  The  Prodigal's  Prayer. 

Oh,  how  I  long  for  the  blessings  I  spurned, 
Ere  to  the  world  and  its  vices  I  turned  ! 
Is  it  too  late?  In  sin  still  must  I  roam? 
Father,  oh,  Father  !  I  pray  take  me  home  ! 

In  all  my  sin  and  my  vileness  I  call ; 
Give  me  the  home  that  was  mine  ere  my  fall ! 
The  wretched  prodigal  calls  from  the  wild  ; 
Take  home,  oh,  Father  !  thy  wandering  child  ! 

Port  Republic,  N.  /.,  Feb.  2nd,  1886. 


A  Legend.  165 


A  LEGEND. 

There's  a  beautiful  legend  of  days  long  ago, 

When  Christ  dwelt  on  earth  among  men, 
That  he  walked  with  the  twelve  He  had  chosen  below 

To  tell  His  glad  message  again  ; 
And  they  saw  by  the  roadside  a  sickening  sight, 

A  putrid  dog's  mouldering  form, 
Decaying  and  festering  in  the  sun's  light 

Which  fell  there  serenely  and  warm. 

The  Master's  disciples  passed  by  in  disgust 

At  the  animal's  foulest  decay, 
<\.nd  only  came  near  for  the  reason  they  must 

In  order  to  pass  on  their  way  ; 
And  they  said,  each  to  each,  as  they  gazed  on  the  dead, 

"  What  a  foul  and  horrible  sight !  " 
The  Lord  smiled  upon  them  in  kindness  and  said, 

"Yet  his  teeth  are  a  beautiful  white." 


1 66  A  Legend. 

So  is  it  in  life  in  the  darkest  of  scenes, 

In  sickness,  vice,  crime  and  despair ; 
'Twixt  foulest  corruptions  some  good  intervenes. 

There  is  something  fair  everywhere. 
In  the  vilest  of  hearts  that  sin's  shadow  enfolds 

And  renders  as  black  as  the  night, 
The  Lord,  overlooking  in  mercy,  beholds 

Something  still  a  pure,  beautiful  white. 

Port  Republic,  N.  /.,  Oct.  sjth,  1885. 


0,  Father,  Hear  Me!  167 


O,  FATHER,  HEAR  ME! 

O,  Father,  hear  me  though  my  sins  are  many, 

For  Thou  canst  cleanse  and  take  them  all  away  ! 
Though  small  indeed  my  worth,  if  I  have  any, 
Help  me,  I  pray  ! 

Keep  me  from  evils  'mid  the  world's  temptation, 

I  would  do  well,  but  oh  !  the  flesh  is  weak. 
Accept  my  spirit's  humble  consecration  ; 
For  Thee  I  seek. 

The  way  is  dark,  my  Father,  oh!  protect  me; 

Shield  me  from  harm  by  Thine  unfailing  care. 
When  life  is  over,  oh  !  do  Thou  elect  me 
Thy  love  to  share. 

Hold  Thou  my  hand,  whatever  be  the  morrow ; 

Lead  me  through  this  life  to  the  one  to  be; 
Be  with  me  still,  in  pleasure  or  in  sorrow 
Abide  with  me. 

Grant  Thou  that  I  may  bring,  ere  life  be  ended, 
Some  golden  grain  amid  the  thorns  and  tares, 
Some  few  good  deeds  with  sin's  dark  actions  blended  ;- 
Oh,  hear  my  prayers  ! 


1 68  O,  Father,  Hear  Me! 

Guide  Thou  my  way  amid  the  gathering  shadows ; 

Lead  Thou  me  on  from  darkness  into  light, 
From  sin's  dark  fields  to  fair,  Elysian  meadows 
Forever  bright. 

Oh  !  grant  that,  when  I  pass  the  shades  surrounding 
That  long  have  wrapped  my  way  in  gloomy  night, 
My  soul  may  share  Thy  tenderness  abounding 
In  worlds  of  light ! 

Lord,  at  the  last  let  all  my  guilt  of  sinning 

Fall  from  me  like  a  mantle  cast  aside  : 
And  may  my  soul,  pure  as  at  life's  beginning, 
With  Thee  abide. 

Long  Island,  Me.,Jan^fh,  1888. 


Samson's  Soliloquy.  169 


SAMSON'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Here  lean  I,  wearied,  on  the  massive  shafts, 
Whose  mighty  limbs  once  never  knew  fatigue, 
The  sport  of  the  loud  rabble  gathered  round 
The  captive  giant,  feeble,  blinded,  shorn, 
Enslaved,  a  thing  for  taunts  and  mockery. 

Once  these  strong  arms  in  slaughter  never  tired, 

Though  hundreds  sank  in  death  beneath  their  strokes ; 

Once  thoughts  rushed  seething  through  this  subtle  brain, 

And  tricks  and  stratagems  destroyed  my  foes ; 

Once  I  was  loved  by  God  and  feared  by  man  ; 

And  now,  behold  me  here,  a  massive  wreck, 

A  slave  among  the  vilest,  loathed,  abhorred, 

Spit  on  and  smitten  by  the  hand  of  man, 

And  stricken  by  the  Lord  whom  I  forsook, 

As  now  in  wrath  He  has  forsaken  me  ! 

How  have  I  fallen  from  my  high  estate, 

To  be  the  jest  of  fools  !     Oh,  bitter  thought ! 

I  only  am  the  source  of  all  my  woes, 

The  maker  of  my  fate !  To  basest  use 

I  put  the  powers  lent  me  from  above, 

And  so  I  lost  them  !  Leaving  the  Most  High, 

I  turned  aside  unto  a  godless  tribe, 

And  cast  off  all  things  that  I  once  held  dear, 

Lured  by  the  falseness  of  an  angel  face. 


170  Samson's  Soliloquy. 

Swift  came  the  retribution  ;  mocked,  betrayed, 
Sold  into  bondage  by  a  traitor  kiss 
From  her  I  loved,  for  whom  I  sacrificed 
Friends,  home  and  country,  character  and  God, 
And  brought  so  low  none  see  me  but  to  scorn  ; 
E'en  to  myself  a  loathing  and  contempt ! 

O,  fool !  fool !  fool !  to  trust  an  impious  race  ! 
O  worse  than  fool  to  trust  a  woman's  smile, 
When  I  had  cause  to  doubt !  A  woman's  heart 
Will  shame  a  devil  by  its  wickedness, 
If  she  be  evil  !     Man  ne'er  sinks  so  low 
As  fallen  woman ;  depths  on  depths  divide 
The  sundered  pair,  though  both  be  steeped  in  sin. 
Her  soul  has  powers  and  capabilities 
For  good  or  evil  his  can  ne'er  attain, 
Wielding  an  influence  not  to  be  withstood  ; 
An  angel  or  a  fiend ;   from  Adam  down, 
A  woman  was  lead  on  to  weal  or  woe  ! 

O,  fairest  face  on  earth  !     O,  foulest  heart, 

To  bring  a  faithful,  loving  life  to  this  ! 

Well  am  I  punished.     May  the  Lord  forgive, 

As  sometimes  I  dare  dream  He  can  and  will, 

When  sudden  thrills  dart  through  my  weakened  form 

As  if  the  harbingers  of  coming  strength, 

Like  that  of  days  gone  by  !   So  may  it  be  ! 

Just  is  my  fate;  nor  murmur  nor  complaint 

Should  pass  my  lips ;  but,  oh  !   'tis  very  hard  ! 


Samsons  Soliloquy.  171 

Would  that  my  former  powers  might  be  restored 
To  cause  the  hooting  multitude  around 
To  fear  the  enemy  they  curse  and  mock, 
And  teach  them  to  respect !     Gladly  would  I 
Myself  destroy  to  crush  my  scornful  foes. 

Lord,  for  this  once  my  vanished  strength  restore, 

Till  I  these  massive  pillars  wrench  away, 

And  hurl  the  roof  in  ruin  on  the  throng, 

One  last,  fell  blow  destroying  them  and  me. 

Ha  !    It  comes  back  !    They  tremble  in  my  grasp  ! 

I  feel  them  totter  !  O,  I  thank  Thee,  Lord  ! 

One  effort  more ;  the  tense  cords  strain  and  part 

But  the  stones  grate  again  ;  the  pillars  sway, 

They  break  !     They  fall  !    The  mighty  stones  above 

Rush  headlong  from  on  high  !     Revenge  and  death  !  — 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  ist,  1889. 


172  Hopes  and  Dreams. 


HOPES  AND  DREAMS. 

Dreams  of  my  boyhood  allured,  then  bereft  me, 
Hopes  for  the  future  born  only  to  fade; 

Wiser  perhaps,  surely  sadder,  they  left  me 

By  graves  where  fancy's  bright  children  are  laid. 

Things  are,  alas  !  far  from  what  I  once  deemed  them, 
In  the  old  days  when  my  glad  life  was  new ; 

Could  they  be  what  then  so  fondly  I 'dreamed  them, 
Scarce  would  I  care  heaven's  gate  to  go  through. 

Bright  were  the  visions  encircling  my  slumbers, 

Gorgeous  the  day-dreams  that  gladdened  my  heart ; 

Now  bitter  truth  my  sad  spirit  encumbers, 
From  fancies  fond  sternly  bidding  me  part. 

Evermore  gone  are  those  splendors  ideal, 
Ne'er  to  come  back  till  time  ceases  for  me. 

Face  to  face  now  with  the  cruelly  real, 

Passed  through  the  rainbows,  clouds  only  I  see. 

Yet  I  thank  God  for  those  hopes  from  me  taken  ; 

Better  illusion  gild  sorrow's  dark  pall, 
Better  from  bright  dreams  in  pain  to  awaken 

Than  have  real  gloom  hanging  heavy  on  all. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  -?jv/,  i8Sg. 


Nothing  but  Leaves.  173 


NOTHING  BUT  LEAVES. 

I'm  nearing  the  future  that's  rising  before  me, 
Approaching  the  goal  to  which  all  journeys  run ; 

I'm  leaving  the  clouds  that  were  just  bending  o'er  me ; 
I'm  nearing  death's  valley  —  and  what  have  I  done? 

Other  people  around  me  are  happy  in  labor, 

And  they  would  be  missed  should  they  happen  to  die ; 

They,  and  their  work  too,  are  a  joy  to  their  neighbor, 
And  helps  to  the  whole  world — but  what  good  am  I? 

The  great  earth  has  work  for  the  pure  and  true-hearted, 
There's  need  for  the  thinkers  and  doers  to  be; 

They're  missed  and  lamented  when  they  have  departed, 
They're  wanted, — but  what  is  there  needful  in  me? 

Who  cares  if  to-morrow  the  grave  shall  enfold  me? 

What  good  have  I  yet  done  by  deed  or  by  thought? 
What  tie  have  I  made  that  to  this  life  should  hold  me? 

My  life,  and  my  work,  and  myself,  all  are  naught. 

Why  still  stands  the  tree  that  the  garden  encumbers, 
The  stalk  that  has  borne  neither  blossom  nor  fruit  ? 

I've  nothing  but  leaves  !  Let  me  go  to  my  slumbers, 
Unmissed,  for,  judged  by  my  past  life,  I  am  mute. 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  March  i6th,  1886. 


174  The  Prodigal's  Return. 


THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN. 

Mother,  I  come 

Back  from  life's  war,  crushed  by  scorn  and  defeat; 
Wounded  and  broken,  to  lie  at  your  feet, 

Conquered,  I  come. 

Yes,  I  come  back, 
Back  to  the  shelter  I  knew  as  a  boy, 
Whence  I  rushed  into  the  world  in  my  joy ; — 

Wearily  back. 

Coming  once  more, — 

For  hope's  bright  day-star  before  me  has  paled, 
Sadly  I  feel  I  have  fought  and  have  failed, — 

To  childhood's  door. 

Gone  ;  all,  all  gone 

Are  the  bright  dreams  that  once  dazzled  my  view ; 
Not  a  trace  left  of  the  visions  youth  knew  ; — 

Faded  and  gone. 

While  pulses  beat, 

Never  shall  I  know  a  tithe  that  I  dreamed  ; 
Things  are  unlike  what  to  fancy  they  seemed ; 

Bitter  defeat ! 


The  Prodigal's  Return.  175 

What  have  I  won  ? 

Crushed  and  flung  out  of  the  world's  busy  track, 
Hopes  of  my  childhood  will  never  come  back ; 

Blasted  each  one  ! 

Bearing  in  vain, 

Back  to  the  home  that  once  proudly  I  spurned, 
From  the  world's  glare  that  allured  and  then  burned, 

Ashes  and  pain  ! 

Coming  from  sin, 

Not  as  I  left  in  my  strength  and  my  prime, 
But  a  wreck  tossed  from  the  billows  of  time, 

A  "  might  have  been  !  " 

Take  me  once  more, 

Mother  ;  my  strivings  for  glory  are  done, 
My  deeds  unwrought  and  my  laurels  umvon, 

Lost  evermore ! 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  nth,  1887. 


176  "  Whatever  Cometh,  Cometh  Well." 


"WHATEVER  COMETH,  COMETH  WELL. 

Over  me  now  the  future  hangs  impending, 
What  it  may  hold  no  mortal  tongue  can  tell ; 

Yet,  whether  far  or  near  may  be  life's  ending, 
I  feel  whatever  cometh,  cometh  well. 

I  can  not  see  the  way  that  lies  before  me ; 

I  know  not  where  fate  may  my  steps  impel, 
Or  whether  light  or  dark  skies  will  be -o'er  me, 

But  yet  I  know  what  cometh,  cometh  well. 

Pleasures  may  come,  they  will ;  all  mortals  find  them  ; 

Sorrows  may  come,  they  must ;  for  all  they  swell, 
Yet  something  better  always  lies  behind  them ; 

Pain,  joy,  whichever  cometh,  cometh  well. 

Our  pleasures  are  the  brightest  gifts  of  heaven, 
Bestowed  on  us  while  here  on  earth  we  dwell ; 

Our  sorrows  are  in  love  and  mercy  given, 

And  for  the  best.    What  cometh,  cometh  well. 

Trials  are  to  the  soul  like  fires  refining, 

Purging  the  gold  of  dross  with  potent  spell ; 

So,  whether  cloudy  be  life's  skies,  or  shining, 
The  thing  that  cometh,  surely  cometh  well. 


"  Whatever  Cometh,  Cometh  Well,"  177 

I  would  not  know  what  coming  years  are  hiding ; 

'Tis  best  that  no  one  can  the  future  tell. 
I  wait  the  time  to  be  with  trust  confiding, 

Because  whatever  cometh,  cometh  well. 

'Tis  certain  lights  and  shadows  will  be  blended ; 
.  In  perfect  peace  no  one  may  hope  to  dwell ; 
But  nothing  will  I  fear  till  life  be  ended ; 
I  know  whatever  cometh,  cometh  well. 

I'll  welcome  pleasures  when  God's  love  shall  grant  them, 
I  will  submit  when  sorrows  round  me  swell ; 

In  joy  or  pain  I'll  raise  the  cheering  anthem, 
"Whatever  cometh,  surely  cometh  well." 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  Feb.  2ist,  1886. 


178  Praise  Song. 


PRAISE  SONG. 

Praise  God  for  my  little,  since  little  have  I 

That  shows  to  the  proud  world  that  passes  me  by ; 

Yet  blessings  are  lurking  in  trouble  disguised, 

And  some  in  all  life-paths  should  highly  be  prized. 

Few  favors  of  fortune  may  fall  upon  mine, 

But  praise  God  for  those  marks  of  mercy  divine. 

Praise  God  for  the  cottage  that  shelters  me  warm, 
While  others  are  out  in  the  pitiless  storm  ; 
Praise  Him  for  the  true  hearts  returning  my  love, 
While  friendless  and  loveless  so  many  must  rove ; 
Praise  Him  for  a  home  under  Wisdom's  control, 
And  not  where  gross  ignorance  shadows  the  soul. 

Praise  God  for  the  health  he  has  given  to  me, 
"While  sick  and  afflicted,  about  me  I  see ; 
Praise  Him  for  sufficient  to  eat  and  to  wear, 
While  half-naked  wretches  go  hungry  and  bare  ; 
Praise  Him  for  calm  reason,  that  gift  above  all, 
"While,  shattered  and  ruined,  far  greater  minds  fall. 


Praise  Song.  179 

Praise  God  for  conviction,  when  worn  and  distressed, 
That  sorrows  He  sends  me  must  be  for  the  best ; 
Praise  Him  for  the  griefs  on  whose  chastening  wings 
My  soul  soars  to  higher  and  holier  things; 
And,-  all  through  life's  journey  yet  lying  before, 
Through  living  and  dying,  Praise  God  evermore  ! 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  26th,  1889. 


1 80  God's  Letter. 


GOD'S   LETTER. 

We  had  come  from  a  warm,  sunny  country, 
Where  cold,  icy  winds  never  blow, 

To  a  land  that  in  winter  is  covered 
With  a  mantle  of  feathery  snow. 

We  had  carried  our  wee  little  Lillie, 
With  heaven's  own  light  in  her  eyes, 

Far  away  from  her  home  where  forever 
Smile  fairest  of  soft  summer  skies. 

One  cold,  chilling  day  in  the  autumn, 
When  dark  clouds  hung  heavy  and  gray, 

I  heard  the  sweet  voice  of  my  darling 
Peal  qut  with  its  laughter  so  gay. 

And  I  found  the  fair,  sweet  little  maiden 
With  snow-crystals  bright  in  her  curls, 

Catching  at  the  light  flakes  as  they  eddied 
On  the  breezes  in  airiest  whirls. 

And  as  I  gazed  lovingly  on  her, 

She  caught  a  white  snow-flake  so  broad, 

And  dimpling  with  mirth  and  with  laughter 
She  cried,   "  See  my  letter  from  God." 


God's  Letter.  181 

That  night  came  a  cough  hard  and  ringing 
From  the  dear  little  innocent's  bed, 

Telling  of  childhood's  scourge,  and  ere  morning 
Our  beautiful  darling  was  dead  ! 

She  had  flown  from  our  shelter  forever, 

Her  blue  eyes  would  never  unfold, 
Her  sweet  laughter  never  would  cheer  us, 

Or  her  bright,  tossing  ringlets  of  gold. 

When  we  buried  our  beautiful  darling 
To  her  rest  'neath  the  snow-covered  sod, 

We  felt  in  the  midst  of  our  weeping 
She  indeed  had  a  message  from  God. 

And  we  knew  in  the  Land  of  the  Blessed 
He  had  opened  His  loving  arms  wide, 

To  receive  the  reply  to  His  letter, 
Forever  to  rest  at  His  side. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  nth,  1887. 


LOVE  LYRICS 


184  Drifted  Apart. 


DRIFTED  APART. 

They  parted  under  the  midnight  moon,  while  the  pale  stars 

throbbed  on  high ; 
And  the  zephyrs  sighed,    and  the  dew-drops   bright  like 

tears  on  the  grass-blades  shone, 
All  the  cherished  dreams  of  the  past  destroyed,  and  broken 

each  tender  tie, 
And  with  one  consent  to  the  life  before  each  sadly  pressed 

on  alone. 

They  had  been  nearer  by  far  than  friends  when  the  morning 

of  life  shone  bright, 
And  its  first  fond  dream,  heaven-sweet  to  all,  found  place 

in  each  youthful  heart ; 
But  all  things  had  changed,  they  could  scarce  tell  how,  as 

the  shades  of  a  falling  night 
O'ercast   the   glorious,    golden   west;    they   only   drifted 

apart. 

No  quarrel  had  on  life's  quiet  broke,  and  no  great  wrong 

their  hopes  o'erthrown, 
But  a  doubt,  a  shadow  that  grew  apace,  crept  between  them 

and  would  not  go ; 
And  somehow  further  apart  they  drew,  till  their  cherished 

plans,  all  outgrown, 
Were  cast  forever  from  both  that  night,  each  half  wishing 

things  not  so. 


Drifted  Apart.  185 

Both   misunderstood,    and   the   doubt   once    formed   had 

shattered  the  golden  spell, 
Till  all  was  over  between  two  hearts  that  once  might  have 

beat  as  one, 
And  a  change  was  made,  either  good  or  bad,  whose  effect 

neither  then  could  tell ; 
He  passed  away  from  her  side  that  night,  and  the  things  of 

the  past  were  done. 

Two   lives,    close-welded,    broke   sharp  apart,    yet  tender 

remained  the  breach, 
Though  years  rolled  on,    and    the   parted   pair  strove  to 

banish  memories  dead. 
New  ties  were    formed   and   new  hopes   indulged,    yet  a 

sorrow  remained  to  each  ; 
And  neither  ever  could  quite  forget  the  hours  that  for  aye 

were  fled. 

The  years   passed   by,    and   again    they   met;    both  were 

softened  and  changed  at  heart, 
For   each   could   see    with   the   other's   eyes,     by   time's 

experience  taught, 
And  their  severed  lives  in  a  moment  touched  where  once 

they  were  torn  apart, 
And  grew  in  one  like  a  fresh-made  wound,  —  but  too  late 

were  these  changes  wrought. 


1 86  Drifted  Apart. 

Alas  for  the  things  that  one  time  had  been,  yet  never  could 

be  again  ! 
Alas  for  the  things  that  might  have  been  !     And  alas  for 

the  things  that  were  ! 
Too  late  they  saw  as  they  should   have  seen  when  their 

spirits  were  rent  in  twain ; 
But  that  time  was  fled  and  the  die  was  cast  —  and  alas  for 

both  him  and  her  ! 

No  earthly  power  could  straighten  all  for  their  own  hearts 

had  willed  it  so, 
Though  they  met  again  and  all  things  were  clear.     Was  it 

better  so  ?     Who  can  tell  ? 
And  again  they  parted  to  meet  no  more,  as  they  parted 

long  years  ago, 
And,  gazing  back  where  their  paths  diverged,  each  sadly 

thought,  "Was  it  well?" 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Sept.  qth,  1888. 


Our  Meeting.  187 


OUR  MEETING. 

We  shall  meet  on  some  day  of  the  future, 
Hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart,  brow  to  brow 

Once  again  shall  we  greet  one  another, 
But,  alas  !  nothing  will  be  as  now. 

We  shall  meet  beyond  changes  we  dream  not, 
For  things  that  are  now  will  not  be, 

And  things  will  then  be  that  now  are  not ; 
How  will  it  be  with  you  and  me  ? 

Shall  we  meet  with  fond,  loving  embraces, 
With  hand-clasps,  and  kisses,  and  smiles? 

Or  with  sorrow's  self-evident  traces 
Of  sighs  and  of  tear-drops  the  whiles? 

Shall  we  meet  as  friends  meet  in  the  future, 
As  dearest  ones  parted  for  long  ? 

Or  as  strangers  view  each  well-known  feature, 
Forgetting  hours  sweet  as  a  song? 

Shall  we  meet  in  warm  life  as  we  parted  ? 

Or  in  dark,  funereal  gloom 
Will  one  stand  all  alone,  broken-hearted, 

While  the  other  is  laid  in  the  tomb  ? 


1 88  Our  Meeting. 

Shall  we  meet  in  the  Land  of  the  Shadows, 
When  our  pulses  have  finished  their  beat, 

In  a  realm  where  earth's  care  never  follows, 
And  the  tale  of  this  life  is  complete? 

Shall  we  look  back  in  sorrow  behind  us 
On  the  wrecks  and  the  ruins  of  years  ? 

Shall  we  see  in  the  hours  that  have  passed  us 
A  record  of  folly  and  tears  ? 

Or  will  the  days,  peacefully  gliding, 
Flow  softly  from  time's  silver  urn 

In  a  smooth  stream,  too  calm  for  vain  sighing 
For  moments  that  never  return  ? 

God  alone  knows  when  cometh  the  meeting, 
Where,  and  whether  in  pleasure  or  tears, 

But  some  day  we'll  see  it  and,  standing 
Side  by  side,  we'll  look  back  on  the  years. 

We  shall  see  our  paths  winding  like  rivers, 
Our  joys,  and  our  sorrows,  and  tears, 

Our  hopes,  and  our  plans,  and  endeavors, 
Our  failures,  and  follies,  and  fears. 

We  shall  meet  —  but  the  world  will  be  altered 
We  shall  meet  —  but  in  us  will  be  change; 

We  shall  meet,  not,  alas  !  as  we  parted  ! 
How  we  know  not,  but  all  will  be  strange. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Feb.  jrd,  1887. 


The  Acacia  Tree.  189 


THE  ACACIA  TREE. 

The  spring  is  .coming  back  amain, 

The  winter  soon  will  flee, 
And  vernal  beauty  hill  and  plain 

Will  render  fair  to  see, 
And  fragrant  flowers  bloom  again 

On  the  acacia  tree. 

I  love  the  scented  blossoms  fair 

As  dearly  as  the  bee 
That  revels  in  the  sweetness  there ; 

And  yet  they  bring  to  me 
Sad  dreams  of  vanished  moments  rare 

'Neath  an  acacia  tree. 

My  sorrow-laden  spirit  grieves 

O'er  the  sweet  memory 
Of  one  of  spring's  most  perfect  eves, 

That  nevermore  will  be, 
When  moon-rays  glistened  through  the  leaves 

Of  an  acacia  tree. 


190  The  Acacia  Tree. 

There  stood  within  its  shadow  sweet 

A  maiden  fair  to  see, 
The  breeze  strewed  blossoms  at  her  feet, 

As  her  lips  breathed  to  me 
A  vow  too  sacred  to  repeat, 

'Neath  the  acacia  tree. 

The  memory  of  holy  love 

The  pure  one  felt  for  me 
From  my  heart  nothing  can  remove; 

Her  last,  dear  gift  I  see 
With  tears,  —  dead  blooms  she  plucked  above 

From  the  acacia  tree. 

That  eve  is  in  the  buried  past, 

And  her  no  more  I  see. 
A  shadow  on  my  life  was  cast, 

That  only  left  to  me 
A  mound  o'er  which,  in  every  blast, 

Moans  an  acacia  tree. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Jan.  jrd,  i8go. 


The  Walk  Untaken.  191 


THE  WALK  UNTAKEN. 

The  friend  of  a  long  past  spring-time, 

When  the  warm  days  had  come  again, 
And  the  buds  of  a  coming  summer 

Were  swelling  on  hill  and  plain, 
Said  to  me,  with  a  smile  of  patience, 

"  When  the  summer  winds  kiss  the  brow, 
We  will  go  on  a  long,  long  ramble ; 

I  am  too  weak  and  tired  now." 

The  days  of  the  summer  hastened, 

And  the  landscape  was  bright  and  fair, 
And  the  leaf  and  the  bird-song  trembled 

Afar  in  the  sunset  air ; 
And  I  said,  "Let  us  walk  together, 

For  the  evening  is  fair  and  still." 
But  she  said,  "  I  am  still  aweary ; 

In  the  autumn  I  surely  will." 

In  the  days  of  the  early  autumn, 

When  the  harvest  was  ripening  fast, 
And  the  fields  with  their  crops  abundant 

Shone  in  beauty  too  bright  to  last, 
"  Let  us  take  the  long-promised  ramble," 

I  said,  as  the  warm  sun  set, 
And  again  did  she  smile  upon  me, 

But  sighed  as  she  said,  "Not  yet." 


192  The  Walk  Untaken. 

Ere  the  snows  of  the  winter  drifted 

O'er  the  leaves  of  a  summer  dead, 
The  sod  of  the  valley  covered 

Forever  that  fair  young  head  ; 
And  the  feet,  once  too  weak  to  ramble 

With  me,  had  outstripped  my  own, 
And  gone  on  a  long,  long  journey 

To  the  summer  land  alone. 

Her  form  was  no  longer  weary, 

But  our  ramble  was  not  to  be ; 
And  never  in  earthly  sunshine 

Will  she  wander  along  with  me. 
But  some  day  my  feet  will  travel 

To  the  land  where  our  lost  ones  dwell, 
And  we  may  take  that  walk  together 

In  the  meadows  of  asphodel. 

Portland,  Me.,  Feb.  4th,  1888. 


Song.  193 


SONG. 

You're  far  away  from  me,  dear; 

To  fate's  decree  I  bow  ; 
I  know  that  it  must  be,  dear, 

But,  oh!  I'm  lonely  now. 

You  were  my  soul's  delight,  dear  ; 

Why  should  we  have  to  part  ? 
You  vanished  from  my  sight,  dear, 

But  never  from  my  heart. 

While  you  are  far  away,  dear, 

Your  influence  is  here; 
Though  absent  many  a  day,  dear, 

To  me  you're  ever  near. 

It  turns  me  from  the  wrong,  dear, 

Your  influence  within  ; 
'Tis  gentle,  but  'tis  strong,  dear, 

In  shielding  me  from  sin. 

I'm  better,  that  I  feel,  dear, 
Since  first  your  worth  I  knew; 

Thoughts  of  you  make  appeal,  dear, 
To  all  that's  good  and  true. 


194 

You've  changed  me  for  the  best,  dear ; 

Thoughts  of  you  change  me  still, 
And  without  stop  or  rest,  dear, 

They  guide,  and  always  will. 

Alas !  I  can  not  say,  dear, 

If  we  again  shall  meet ; 
God  in  love  grant  we  may,  dear, 

And  speed  the  moment  sweet ! 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Jan.  i^th,  1887. 


/  Dreamed  that  I  was  Dead.  195 


I  DREAMED  THAT  I  WAS  DEAD. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead, 
And  in  my  last,  long  rest  was  laid  away 
Under  the  ground,  far  from  the  light  of  day; 
Above  my  head  the  summer  breezes  blew, 
The  buds  and  blossoms  reared  their  heads  anew, 
The  sunshine  glanced,  the  brooklet  murmured  by, 
The  glad  birds  sang,  delighting  ear  and  eye 
Of  living  ones  :  all  these  were  round  me  spread ; 

And  1  was  dead  ! 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead, 
And  o'er  my  brow  a  gentle  footstep  came ; 
I  heard  dear,  well-known  lips  repeat  my  name ; 
1  felt  warm  tears  fall  on  the  grass-grown  sod 
That  sundered  our  two  faces;  ah,  dear  God  ! 
The  bitter  lot,  to  lie,  and  feel,  and  know 
My  love  wept  close  to  me  in  sorest  woe  ! 
I  could  not  soothe  ;  the  grave-mould  hid  my  head  ; 

For  I  was  dead  ! 


1 96  /  Dreamed  that  I  was  Dead. 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead, 
And  yet  the  thought  of  a  life  incomplete 
Tortured  my  heart,  though  it  had  ceased  to  beat ; 
The  thought  of  moments  wasted,  thrown  away, 
Of  opportunities  then  lost  for  aye, 
Of  good  deeds  that  I  might  and  should  have  wrought, 
Of  wrongs  I  might  have  righted,  and  did  not, 
Of  bays  that  one  day  might  have  crowned  my  head, 

But  I  was  dead  ! 

I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead, 
But  yet,  thank  God  !  it  was  a  dream  alone, 
And  time  and  chance  for  much  are  yet  my  own. 
Please  Him  that  when  this  earthly  body  dies, 
The  sod  forever  hides  my  sightless  eyes, 
If  thought  or  feeling  yet  should  be  my  own, 
I  may  not  mourn  thus  o'er  the  moments  flown 
That  left  so  little  good  behind  me  spread, 

When  I  am  dead  ! 

Long  Island,  Me.,  May  ijth,  1888. 


Parted.  197 


PARTED. 

Yes  !  for  aye  the  tie  is  broken,  and  the  die  is  ever  cast, 
The  bright  dream  forever  shattered ;  far  too  bright,  alas ! 

to  last ; 
We  can  ne'er  be  to  each  other  as  we  have  been  in  the  past. 

Our  lives  must  divide  forever,  like  our  paths  which  lead 

apart ; 
Pluck  the  past  from  out  the  memory,  the  loved  image  from 

the  heart ; 
Let  us  turn  unto  the  future  and  forget  the  hidden  smart. 

You  were  not  what  I  believed  you ;  the  scales  fell,  and  I 

could  see ; 
Nor  was  I  what  you  had  thought  me,  naught  alike  in  you 

and  me ; 
But  'tis  over  !     Oh  how  sad  'tis  such  mistakes  should  ever 

be! 

We  have  parted ;  to  the  future  we  have  sadly  turned  our 

feet, 
And  the  dead  past  lies  behind  us,  full  of  sadness,  yet  how 

sweet ! 
God  knows  if  in  life's  arena  we  again  may  chance  to  meet. 


198        »  Parted. 

It  perchance  may   happen   some  day    that  our  lives  may 

cross  again, 
Ere  for  us  Time's  ceaseless  currents  reach  Eternity's  wide 

main ; 
Should  it  happen,  will  the  meeting  bring  to  us  no  shade  of 

pain? 

If  it  chance  that  in  the  future  face  to  face  again  we  stand, 
But  as  strangers,  and  as  strangers  part  with  just  a  clasp  of 

hand, 
Will  there  not  arise  before  us  that  mistake,    the  severed 

band? 

Though  the  past  be  dead  forever,  and  we  ne'er  can  be  the 

same 
As  we  have  been,  the  old  errors  will  burn  like  a  hidden 

flame ; 
Yet  not  we,  the  Power  that  made  us  as  we  were,  must  bear 

the  blame. 

Though  in  time  all  our  mistakings  we  may  view  without 

regret, 
Still  we  ne'er  can  meet  each  other  as  though  we  had  never 

met ; 
Though  we  may  appear  as  strangers,   yet   we   never   can 

forget. 

Port  Republic,  N.  J.,  Feb.  4th,  1886. 


To  Ellie.  199 


TO  ELLIE. 

Ellie,  my  darling,  you  know  not  how  near  to  me 
The  years  have  bound  you,  my  love  and  my  life; 

Absence  but  makes  you  more  needful  and  dear  to  me ; 
God  speed  the  moment  that  makes  you  my  wife  ! 

Oh,  what  a  glory  the  bright  years  have  borne  to  me, 
Since  the  fond  moment  that  made  you  my  own  ! 

Keep  the  sweet  vow  that  your  pure  lips  have  sworn  to  me, 
And  poor  to  me  were  a  king  on  his  throne. 

Waking  or  sleeping,  I  think  of  you,  dream  of  you, 

Ellie,  my  love,  and  my  life,  and  my  all ! 
Fair  is  the  world  when  my  eyes  catch  a  gleam  of  you, 

But  is  a  desert  when  vainly  I  caJ. 

Absent  or  present,  'tis  you  I  am  sighing  for, 
The  one  great  blessing  I  beg  and  implore. 

You,  only  you,  love,  my  spirit  is  crying  for ; 
Come  to  me,  Ellie,  and  leave  me  no  more. 

Come  to  me,  darling,  and  soothe  me  and  sing  to  me, 
Light  of  my  life  and  the  hope  of  my  heart, 

Come  to  me,  darling,  and  kiss  me  and  cling  to  me, 
While  life  is  ours  nevermore  to  depart. 


2OO  To  Elite. 

Beautiful  one,  be  yourself  and  be  true  to  me ; 

And  to  doubt  you  were  to  doubt  the  divine, 
And  I  care  not  what  false  fortune  may  do  to  me 

If  you,  sweet  Ellie,  forever  are  mine ; 

Mine  evermore,  for  your  pure  lips  express  it  so 
In  a  soft  whisper  just  over  your  breath  ; 

What  is  my  life,  dear,  that  your  love  should  bless  it  so, 
Ellie,  mine  only,  in  life  and  in  death  ? 

North  Fayetle,  Me.,  Dec.  2gth,  1889. 


Longings.  20 1 


LONGINGS. 

I  sigh  for  the  sight  of  a  wild-rose  face, 

And  faint  for  the  touch  of  a  fair  white  hand, 
As  I  dream  of  a  figure  of  lightsome  grace, 
With  a  yearning  lovers  can  understand. 
I  long  for  a  look  from  the  love-lit  eyes 
That  can  not  conceal  what  within  them  lies, 
For  the  lips  whose  sweetness  I  learned  to  prize, 
And  I  see  but  the  empty  space. 

For  the  face  like  a  primrose,  to  me  so  dear, 

Has  fled  forever  from  out  my  way, 
And  the  tender  touch  of  a  vanished  year 

And  the  fairy  figure  are  gone  for  aye. 
I  shall  only  see  in  the  world  above 
Those  starry  eyes  with  their  looks  of  love, 
But  the  ripe  lips'  sweetness  I  there  may  prove, 
That  on  earth  nevermore  I  may. 


2O2  Longings. 

Though  my  aching  heart  in  the  darkness  call, 
It  is  all  in  vain,  for  no  answers  come; 

And  darker  and  deeper  the  shadows  fall, 
For  the  lips  I  list  for  on  earth  are  dumb. 

Nevermore  will  my  own  cling  quivering  there ; 

My  arms  are  empty,  my  life  is  bare ; 

What  years  are  bringing  I  scarcely  care, 

For  my  future  is  wrapped  in  gloom. 
North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  23*6,  1889. 


Under  the  Stars.  203 


UNDER  THE  STARS. 

Have  you  forgotten  our  first  evening  ramble, 

Down  in  the  lane  where  the  whip-poor-will  sang, 

Hid  in  the  hedgerow  of  brier  and  bramble, 
Where  the  old  apple-trees  over  it  hang  ? 
Don't  you  remember  that  walk  to  the  gate, 
Under  the  stars  ? 

Your  modest  features  drooped  under  my  gazing, 

And  strange,  new  feelings  my  young  bosom  stirred ; 

My  bashful  arm  round  you  daringly  raising, 
(I  saw  you  blush,  but  you  said  not  a  word  !) 
I  drew  your  slight  figure  close  to  my  side, 
Under  the  stars. 

I  felt  your  heart's  wild,  tumultuous  leaping, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  gathered  your  form  ; 

When  your  shy  eyes  to  mine  slowly  came  creeping  — 
How  could  I  hdp  it?  —  your  dewy  lips  warm 
My  own  just  touched  in  a  scared,  hurried  kiss, 
Under  the  stars. 


204  Under  the  Stars. 

Ah  !  we  were  young,  and  a  fairy-like  splendor 
Lightened  our  lives  then  that  now  we  have  lost, 

And  love's  first  beauty,  bewitching  and  tender, 
Dawned  for  us  both  as  the  dim  lane  we  crossed, 
Strange  and  so  sweet  we  knew  not  what  it  was ; 
Under  the  stars. 

But  we  have  parted,  and  parted  forever ; 
That  love  matured  not  as  years  hurried  by ; 

Often  I  dreamily  wonder  if  ever 

You  think  of  that  night  as  fondly  as  I, 
And  sigh  as  memory  pictures  the  walk 
Under  the  stars. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Jan.  2nd,  1890. 


Mizpah.  205 


MIZPAH. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  we  have  parted  in  sorrow; 

Our  paths  divided  long  winters  ago, 
Never  to  cross  but  in  Heaven's  to-morrow, 
When  we  have  finished  our  journey  below. 
Mountain  and  river, 
And  forests  that  quiver, 
Part  from  the  face  that  no  longer  I  see ; 
Tenderly  sighing 
As  moments  are  flying, 
I  pray,  "The  Lord  watch  between  thee  and  me!  " 

Sweet  were  those  hours  when  we  wandered  together, 

Weaving  the  bright,  golden  fancies  of  youth, 
But  life  is  changing  as  midsummer  weather; 
Fairest  ideals  gave  place  to  the  truth. 

Visions  have  faded, 

And  sorrows  invaded ; 
Closely  linked  hearts  have  been  parted  for  years ; 

Hopes  that  were  cherished 

So  fondly  have  perished, 
Leaving  a  record  of  folly  and  tears. 


206  Mizpah. 

Loved  one  and  lost  one,  no  more  I  behold  you, 

Yet  still  affection  is  warm  in  my  soul ; 
Though  so  long  absent,  my  heart-strings  enfold  you 
But  the  more  closely  as  years  onward  roll. 

Brightness  surround  you, 

Till  seraphs  have  crowned  you  ! 
Peace  be  your  own  till  time  ceases  to  be  ! 

All  joys  be  given 

Until  you  gain  Heaven, 
And  "May  the  Lord  watch  between  thee  and  me! >: 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  jsst,  1889. 


Stella.  207 


STELLA. 


I  think  of  you  to-night,  love, 

As' evening  shadows  fall ; 
The  shining  orbs  of  light,  love, 

Your  starry  eyes  recall. 
Through  all  the  years  I've  known  you, 
Star  of  my  soul  I  own  you, 
And  in  my  heart  enthrone  you, 

My  only  and  my  all ! 

To  me  you're  ever  near,  love, 
Though  waste  and  waters  part ; 

Your  wild-rose  face  is  here,  love, 
Close  hidden  in  my  heart. 

In  memory  or  dreaming, 

Your  star-eyes,  brightly  gleaming, 

Are  always  on  me  beaming ; 
They  nevermore  depart. 

If  God's  love  think  it  right,  dear, 
Our  lives  should  part  for  aye, 

My  earthly  star  in  night,  dear, 
Set  on  my  darkened  way, 

As  death  divides  forever 

The  hearts  that  ache  to  sever, 

My  memory  will  ever 
Retain  its  parting  ray. 


208  Stella. 

And  faith  will  bridge  the  wave,  dear, 
The  torrent's  streaming  bar 

Poured  from  an  open  grave,  dear, 
That  hides  the  world  afar ; 

And  when  I  sadly  ponder, 

As  lone  and  lorn  I  wander, 

I'll  feel  that  over  yonder 

I'll  hail  my  Morning  Star. 
North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  jist,  1889. 


0,  Deep,  Dark  Eyes  !  209 


O,  DEEP,  DARK  EYES  ! 

O,  deep,  dark,  melting,  beautiful  eyes, 

As  fathomless,  clear,  as  the  deep,  dark  sea, 
Tell  to  me  the  secret  that  in  you  lies, 

The  wealth  of  your  wonderful  mystery  ! 
The  hidden  feelings  that  ebb  and  flow, 
The  thoughts  unuttered  that  come  and  go, 
The  things  I  know  not,  but  fain  would  know, 
O,  dear  eyes,  reveal  to  me  ! 

O,  eyes  that  timidly  gaze  on  mine, 
And  then  turn  in  coyness  or  modesty, 

Interpret  the  thoughts  that  within  you  shine ; 
Their  hidden  meaning  make  known  to  me  ! 

I  can  not  fathom  your  depths  aright, 

The  changing  gleam  in  your  shadowy  light ; 

I  would  fain  believe,  if  I  only  might, 
What  sometimes  I  think  I  see. 


2 in  0,  Deep,  Dark  Eyes  ! 

O,  deep,  dark  eyes,  with  your  glances  fond, 
O,  eyes  so  tender,  and  pure,  and  true, 

Through  you  let  me  gaze  to  the  soul  beyond, 
And  read  there  the  story  that's  ever  new  '. 

Disclose  the  secret  you  guard  so  well ; 

Confirm  or  shatter  the  golden  spell, 

What  the  lips  speak  not,  let  your  glances  tell ; 
Do  you  love  me  as  I  love  you  ? 

Long  Island,  Me.,  April  jolh,  1888. 


The  Difference.  2 1 1 


THE  DIFFERENCE. 

They  plighted  truth  in  the  days  of  youth, 

With  a  kiss  and  a  clasp  of  hand, 
But  with  thoughts  of  each,  underlying  speech, 
•    As  unlike  as  the  sea  and  sand. 

He  gave  in  part  his  aspiring  heart, 
But  his  ambitious  schemes  were  more 

Than  the  jewel  rare  he  had  but  to  wear, 
More  precious  than  crown  ere  bore. 

She  brought  the  whole  of  a  spotless  soul; 

Her  life  and  her  love,  her  all, 
To  fling  at  his  feet  in  an  offering  sweet 

She  might  never  again  recall. 

Tender  dreams  of  her  would  his  spirit  stir, 
When  his  toil,  for  the  time,  was  done, 

But  ere  long  the  strife  and  the  cares  of  life 
Banished  thoughts  of  the  waiting  one. 

But  she  dreamed  of  him,  as  her  eyes  grew  dim, 

At  morning,  at  noon,  at  night ; 
And  naught  could  tear  from  the  maiden  fair 

The  image  she  thought  so  bright. 


2 1 2  The  Difference. 

In  the  inmost  goal  of  her  snow-white  soul 
She  had  throned  him,  a  king,  a  god, 

At  whose  shrine  apart,  on  his  sordid  heart, 
She  could  lavish  love's  holy  flood. 

But  a  golden  wand  in  Fame's  beckoning  hand 
Soon  summoned,  and  he  obeyed  ; 

And,  following  on  from  the  true  heart  won, 
Scarcely  missed  the  deserted  maid. 

While  she,  ah  !  she  saw  her  idol  flee, 
And  the  springs  of  her  life  stood  still ; 

And  its  light  went  out  in  the  shades  of  doubt 
That  her  love  vainly  strove  to  kill. 

In  a  distant  clime,  at  an  idle  time, 
"Just  to  keep  the  little  girl  still," 

He  a  few  lines  penned,  dreaming  not  the  end, 
Caring  only  his  part  to  fill. 

But  they  met  too  late  the  fond  eyes  in  wait ; 

They  were  earth-dim,  and  faint  her  breath; 
And  she  vainly  strove  in  her  mighty  love 

To  read  what  she  clasped  in  death. 

And  the  foolish  note  that  her  idol  wrote, 
Thoughtless,  careless  of  what  he  said, 

Is  unread  to-day,  buried  far  away 
In  the  hand  of  the  holy  dead. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Nov.  2ist,  1889. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Tlic  Maniac.  2 1 5 


THE  MANIAC. 

i. 

Oh,  tiie  hard  and  pitiless  doom 
Of  pacing  around  one  narrow  room, 
Whether  without  is  the  winter's  gloom, 
Or  summer  time  with  its  bird  and  bloom  ! 
Better,  far  better,  the  silent  tomb, 
If  one  did  not  fear  to  die  ! 

Walking  on  in  a  narrow  round, 
Hemmed  by  four  walls'  merciless  bound, 
Alone  in  a  solitude,  dead,  profound, 
The  maniac  yelling  the  only  sound, 
And  nowhere  a  covering  to  be  found 
From  God's  all-seeing  eye  ! 

Tongue  can  never  the  terrors  tell 
Of  a  living  death  in  a  narrow  cell, 
Haunted  by  visions  dark  and  fell, 
While  passions  fierce  in  the  bosom  swell, 
Worse  than  those  of  the  damned  in  hell, 
For  punishment  of  the  bad. 


2i6  The  Maniac. 

The  same  small  circle  to  pace  again, 
Under  a  curse  like  the  curse  of  Cain, 
My  hands  still  red  with  a  gory  stain, 
And  suffering  pangs  of  remorseful  pain, 
With  a  demon  stamping  upon  my  brain.  — 
Who  says  that  I  am  mad? 

n. 

O,  Liberty  !     Sweet  are  thy  peaceful  ways, 

Sweet  to  wander  abroad  at  will, 
And  spend  as  pleases  the  joyful  days, 
In  the  quiet  home  or  the  forest  maze  ! 
With  others,  or  far  from  all  human  gaze, 

Thine  hours  will  be  pleasant  still ! 

Sweet  Freedom's  banner,  oft  stained  with  blood, 

Is  dear  to  the  patriot's  eyes, 
And  it  rises  purer  though  dragged  in  mud, 
For  heroes'  veins  pour  a  cleansing  flood, 
As  they  bleed  for  the  stars  its  folds  bes^ud ; 

And  Freedom's  light  never  dies. 

Her  spirit  floats  in  the  sunset  air, 

Under  every  sky  and  clime. 
She  lives  where  Oppression  spreads  his  snare, 
She  is  nursed  by  martyred  patriots'  prayer, 
She  breathes  in  nature  everywhere, 

'Mid  slavery,  vice  and  crime. 


The  Maniac.  2  \  7 

To  tame  the  partridge  men  try  in  vain ; 

It  dies  in  captivity. 

The  winds  of  heaven  scorn  curb  and  rein, 
And  of  old  the  Hellespont's  restless  main 
Flung  off  in  derision  the  Persian's  chain  ; 

Nature's  children  should  all  be  free. 

It  has  been  the  same  since  the  days  of  yore, 

The  pages  of  history  tell. 
'Tis  Israel's  record  in  sacred  lore, 
'Tis  witnessed  by  Scotland's  fields  of  gore, 
By  crimson  plains  on  America's  shore  ; 

All  pulses  for  freedom  swell. 

If  moral  bondage  bring  such  a  fear 

To  those  God  created  free, 
What  can  the  lot  of  the  lost  one  cheer, 
Forever  robbed  of  the  sunlight  clear, 
Imprisoned  ever  by  cold  walls  drear, 

In  a  hell  like  this  made  for  me  ? 

in. 
No  wonder  I  think  of  my  childhood, 

Of  the  beautiful  long  ago, 
When  I  wandered  through  field  and  wildwood, 

With  never  a  thought  of  woe  ; 
That  I  think  of  the  ones  who  loved  me 

In  the  days  of  the  golden  yore, 
Now  gone  to  the  realms  above  me, 

And  lost  to  me  evermore ; 


218  The  Maniac. 

That  I  think  of  the  proud  ambitions 

Of  a  happy  and  far-off  time, 
That  met  with  such  curst  fruitions 

When  my  spirit  was  stained  with  crime; 
That  I  think  of  my  school-day  honors, 

When  Wisdom  unrolled  her  scroll, 
Ere  the  temptings  that  fall  upon  us 

Had  blackened  my  sinless  soul ! 

And  I  feel  like  a  ruined  angel, 
When  I  dwell  on  that  innocence, 

Ere  I  saw  fierce  passion  change  all 

.    Into  blackness  deep  and  dense  ; 

Ere  the  wreck  of  my  soul  immortal 
Wrought  its  bitterness  and  pain  ; 

Ere  for  life  closed  my  iron  portal ; 
Ere  a  fiend  trampled  on  my  brain. 

I  long  for  those  days,  with  yearning 

That  never  can  be  expressed, 
When  I  felt  love's  pure  flame  burning, 

On  the  altar  within  my  breast ; 
When  I  felt  my  strong  will  swaying 

At  the  touch  of  a  lovely  girl, 
'Twixt  hope  and  despair  delaying, 

Fast  bound  by  a  silken  curl. 


The  Maniac.  219 

IV. 

Her  form  was  as  slight  as  a  fairy, 

Full,  rounded  and  soft ; 
Her  motions  as  graceful  and  airy 

As  leaves  up  aloft. 

Her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  heaven 

In  the  dazzling  June  ; 
Her  voice  seemed  like  sweet  echoes  given 

By  angelic  tune. 

Her  teeth  were  like  pearls  of  the  ocean 

In  pink-tinted  shell ; 
Her  red  lips,  at  rest  or  in  motion, 

Of  bliss  seemed  to  tell. 

Her  throat  was  of  pure,  spotless  whiteness, 

Like  marble  or  snow  ; 
Her  curls  with  a  rich,  golden  brightness 

In  sunlight  would  glow. 

Ah  me,  that  such  wonderful  beauty 

Should  be  but  a  curse 
To  drag  me  from  pleasure  and  duty 

To  black  hell  —  or  worse  ! 

The  day  the  sweet  promise  was  given, 

That  she  would  be  mine, 
I  seemed  not  on  earth,  but  in  heaven, 

In  rapture  divine  ! 


22O  The  Maniac. 

v. 
In  a  dream  I  went  home  to  my  cottage,  while  rainbows 

seemed  round  me  to  play, 
And  all  of  the  blessings  I  sighed  for  seemed   showering 

down  on  my  way. 
Of  joy  far  too  deep  I  was  drinking,  too  bright  were  my 

visions  to  last. 
Ye  gods!  how  it  tortures  the  present  to  think  of  the  bliss 

of  the  past ! 

Around  me  the  sweet  birds  were  singing,  their  songs  bore 

the  burden  of  love  ; 
The  flowers  about  me  were  springing,  the  sunlight  poured 

down  from  above : 
The  future  was  radiant  before  me,  my  life  was  unspotted 

by  sin  ; 
Friends  many,  head  filled  with  earth's  wisdom,  and  never 

a  demon  within  ! 

I  pass  to  the  dreadful  unveiling,  when  all  things  I  rightfully 

saw, 
When  the  demon  passed  into  my  being,  and  his  devilish 

will  became  law, 
When  I  started  to  visit  my  darling  on  a  glorious  evening 

in  June, 
And  swift  through  the  woodland  I  hurried,  half  lit  by  the 

light  of  the  moon. 


The  Maniac.  221 

VI. 

Great  God  !  what  did  I  see 
Under  a  spreading  tree,  t 

Myself  unseen  ? 
The  girl  I  loved  the  best 
Pressed  to  a  rival's  breast 

'Neath  branches  green  ! 

Loved,  did  I  say  before? 
Worshipped,  adored  !     Far  more 

Was  she  to  me 
Than  life,  or  light,  or  love 
Of  man  or  God  above  ! 

My  all  was  she  ! 

I  felt  a  deadly  blow 

When,  with  voice  soft  and  low, 

Her  love  she  told. 
Then,  when  I  knew  her  false, 
I  felt  each  bounding  pulse 

Grow  still  and. cold. 

I  saw  him  kiss  her  there, 
In  the  dim,  dusky  air, 

Beneath  the  tree. 
Great  God,  that  rulest  men, 
Why  didst  not  there  and  then 

Slay  them  —  or  me  ? 


222  The  Maniac. 

VII. 

Over  me  amid  the  larches, 
Black  among  the  leafy  arches, 

Leaned  a  tree, 

Seared  and  lifeless,  hollow,  riven, 
Blackened  by  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
When  God  played  his  thunder-marches' 

Symphony. 

Cursed  by  Him,  the  fire  descended 
From  on  high,  with  anger  blended, 

Scathed  and  slew ; 

Cursed  by  man,  for  one  fair  dawning, 
There  the  early  rays  of  morning 
Found  a  suicide  suspended, 

Cold  and  blue. 

In  its  curst  and  blackened  hollow, 
Like  a  huge  mouth  gaped  to  swallow 

Beast  and  fowl, 

Dwelt  a  greedy,  gaunt,  ungainly, 
Ghostly,  ghastly  bird,  that  plainly 
Needless  slaughter  loved  to  follow, 

A  great  owl. 


The  Maniac.  223 

Nightly,  while  the  ruin  lasted, 
From  that  old  tree,  thunder-blasted, 

Dark  and  dead, 

Round  about  the  bird  went  flying, 
Slaying,  feasting  on  the  dying, 
Till  the  dawn,  then  homeward  hasted, 

Talons  red. 

Such  the  story  as  men  know  it ; 

All  who  dwelt  near  by  could  show  it, 

That  old  tree ! 

But  they  had  a  darker  history, 
Bird  and  tree ;  a  blacker  mystery 
That  was,  as  I  stood  below  it, 

Shown  to  me. 

That  tree  was  a  thing  of  evil, 
A  place  for  unhallowed  revel 

Fit  for  hell. 

In  its  hollow  there  were  lurking 
Fiends  from  Hades,  black  charms  working, 
And  the  bird  contained  a  devil 

Fierce  and  fell. 


224  The  Maniac. 

As  I  stood  there,  peering,  stooping, 
Loud  there  came  a  hooting,  whooping, 

Sudden,  dread, 

And  the  horrid  bird  descended 
On  my  brow,  by  naught  defended  ; 
The  fiend  left  the  bird,  while  swooping, 

For  my  head. 

In  my  brain  he  made  his  dwelling, 
And  his  cursed  will  impelling 

Spurred  me  on. 

When  they  left,  this  fiend,  my  master, 
Drove  me  after,  and  disaster 
Almost  beyond  mortal  telling 

Came  ere  morn. 

VIII. 

Oh,  why  did  she  stand  at  the  gate 
Alone,  when  my  rival  was  gone? 
The  fiend  was  impelling  me  on  ; 

Why  lingered  she,  for  it  was  late? 

Why  did  the  fiend  torture  me, 

In  the  pain  that  her  falseness  cost, 
With  the  sight  of  the  beauty  lost, 

That  the  white  moon  let  me  see? 


The  Maniac.  225 


Why  did  my  senses  whirl 

With  a  madness  I  can  not  tell, 
With  pangs  like  the  pangs  of  hell, 

At  the  sight  of  a  faithless  girl? 

Why  did  the  fiend  bid  rise 

The  sprites  of  Revenge  and  Pain, 
Never  to  be  expelled  again, 

While  she  was  before  my  eyes  ? 

IX. 

"Crush!     Crush!" 
Said  the  fiend  within  my  head. 
"  Stretch  her  at  your  feet,  dead  ! 

Crush  !  crush  ! 

'"  Slay  !     Slay  ! 

With  no  pitying  glance  behind, 
She  slaughtered  your  peace  of  mind  I 

Slay  !  slay  ! 

"Kill!     Kill 

The  fair  and  the  pitiless  flirt, 
Who  gave  you  your  mortal  hurt ! 

Kill !  kill  ! 

"  Smite  !     Smite 

The  source  whence  your  curses  fell, 
The  tortures  of  damned  in  hell ! 

Smite  !  smite  !  " 


226  The  Maniac. 

x. 

A  single  spring  to  the  false  one's  side, 
A  single  clutch  at  the  fair  white  neck, 

A  clutch  that  lasted  until  she  died 

And  the  tide  of  life  met  an  awful  check  ! 

The  brilliant  curls,  in  a  tangle  tossed 

No  longer  glistened  like  burnished  gold  ; 

Their  smoothness  and  beauty  forever  lost : 
A  snarl  on  a  brow  that  would  soon  be  cold. 

The  lovely  skin  of  a  snowy  white, 

That  made  men  toys  in  her  dainty  hands, 

Turned  black  with  grim  Death's  horrible  blight 
As  my  fingers  tightened  their  strangling  bands. 

The  blue  lips,  parted  in  ghastly  grin, 

Displayed  the  teeth  of  a  gleaming  white  ; 

The  tongue,  hanging  out  o'er  the  dimpled  chin, 
Showed  swollen,  purple,  by  pale  moon's  light. 

The  lovely  eyes  of  celestial  blue, 

Protruded  in  terror  and  deep  despair, 

Displaced,  distended,  of  awful  hue, 
Were  fixed  on  mine  in  a  fiendish  stare. 

Then  the  limp  head  dropped  on  the  tender  breast 
Life's  current  in  those  veins  no  more  would  run. 

The  still  form  sank  in  the  dust  to  rest, 
And  the  demon's  devilish  work  was  done. 


The  Maniac.  227 

The  form  that  but  one  short  hour  ago 
Was  clothed  in  beauty  bright  as  the  day, 

Instinct  with  life,  with  no  thought  of  woe, 
In  the  dirt  a  horrible  ruin  lay. 

Oh,  that  homeward  course  through  the  awful  night, 
Spurred  on  by  the  visions  of  guilty  fear ! 

The  fiend  on  my  brain  stamped  in  hellish  might, 
With  legions  of  devils  hovering  near ! 

They  shrieked  and  yelled  o'er  my  ruined  soul 

In  tones  I  shall  hear  till  my  dying  day, 
And  I  saw  their  fiery  eyeballs  roll, 

As  they  swooped  to  clutch  and  bear  me  away. 

To  the  home  of  childhood  I  wildly  fled  ; 

None  saw  me  in  through  the  portal  creep ; 
And,  tortured  and  maddened,  I  went  to  bed, 

But  not  to  sleep  —  ah  !  not  to  sleep  ! 

XI. 

Dragged  on  the  morn, 

At  the  early  dawn, 
To  a  dungeon  dark  and  bare, 

While  a  mob  outside 

In  its  fury  cried 
For  my  limbs  into  shreds  to  tear  ! 


228  The  Maniac. 

Left  all  alone 

In  its  walls  of  stone 

To  think  of  what  I  had  done, 
Wild  with  the  pain 
Of  a  bursting  brain 

That  the  demon  still  stamped  upon 

Burn  the  rack  and  wheel, 
And  the  boots  of  steel, 

For  tortures  ye  ne'er  can  find 
That  can  e'er  compare 
With  one's  black  despair 

Alone  with  his  guilty  mind  ! 

Words  can  never  tell 
What  that  awful  cell, 

Where  I  in  the  dim  light  lay, 
Of  suffering  knew, 
While  I  tortured  through 

The  hours  till  the  second  day. 

Stretched  on  iron  bed, 
With  a  bursting  head, 

Worn  out  with  my  ravings  wild, 
In  a  heap  I  lay 
The  following  day, 

As  weak  as  a  little  child. 


The  Maniac.  229 

Soon  I  heard  the  swell 

Of  a  funeral  bell, 
From  the  church  tower  across  the  way, 

And  its  iron  tongue, 

As  it  slowly  swung, 
Told  my  victim's  burial  day. 

XII. 

Tolling,  tolling, 

Through  the  grated  window  rolling 
Came  the  pealing  of  the  bell, 
Ringing  Beauty's  solemn  knell, 
To  her  slayer  unconsoling ; 

Tolling,  tolling  ! 

Pealing,  pealing, 
Solemn  echoes  round  me  stealing 
Told  of  youth  laid  in  the  tomb, 
'Mid  corruption,  worms  and  gloom, 
Spoiled  of  beauty,  sense  and  feeling ; 

Pealing,  Pealing  ! 

Sobbing,  sobbing, 
Sad,  funereal  music  throbbing, 
Wave  of  sound  succeeding  wave 
Over  murdered  beauty's  grave ; 
Death  a  gem  of  life  was  robbing ; 

Throbbing,  sobbing  ! 


230  The  Maniac. 

Knelling,  knelling, 
The  last  solemn  service  telling 
Over  dead  clay  laid  away, 
Till  God's  awful  judgment  day  ; 
Soon  the  last  bell-notes  came  swelling; 

Knelling,  knelling! 

XIII. 

Silence  sudden,  awful,  deep ; 
And  they  left  her  there  to  sleep, 
As  night's  shades  began  to  creep. 

She  was  cut  down  in  her  bloom  ; 
Hurried  by  a  dreadful  doom, 
Unprepared,  into  the  tomb. 

She  was  thrust  among  the  dead, 
With  her  sins  upon  her  head, 
Ere  her  nineteenth  year  had  fled. 

But  her  fate  far  better  is, 
And  less  dismal  far,  than  his 
Who  slew  her,  with  its  miseries. 

At  the  midnight  hour  I  strode 
Where  the  grated  window  showed 
Church  and  yard  across  the  road. 

In  the  city  of  the  dead, 

There  I  saw  a  lowly  bed, 

With  no  stone  to  mark  its  head. 


The  Maniac.  231 

There  the  moonlight  shone  above 
White-winged  shapes,  each  like  a  dove, 
Floating  o'er  my  murdered  love. 

Angels  o'er  the  low  mound  hung, 
On  it  pearly  droplets  flung, 
While  this  requiem  was  sung  : 

XIV. 

"  Scatter  the  drops  of  forgetfulness 

Over  the  false  and  fair; 
Let  her  sins  sleep  till  the  judgment  day 
Where  in  the  earth  she  is  laid  away, 

And  breathe  for  her  soul  a  prayer. 

"  Scatter  the  drops  of  forgetfulness 

Over  the  sin  she  knew  ; 
Let  her  wrong-doing  forever  sleep 
Here  in  the  grave  where  she's  buried  deep; 

Think  of  her  deeds  good  and  true. 

"  Scatter  the  drops  from  the  Lethean  wave 

Over  her  actions  wrong  ; 
Think  of  the  good  she  has  scattered  abroad, 
Leaving  the  rest  to  a  pitying  God  ; 

His  mercy  endureth  long  ! 


232  The  Maniac. 

"  Scatter  forgiveness  above  her  grave  ; 

Leave  her  to  a  dreamless  sleep  ! 
Over  the  spot  where  her  form  is  laid, 
Let  all  hard  feelings  forever  fade 

And  sink  in  oblivion  deep  !  " 

xv. 

A  softness  entered  my  weary  breast 
With  the  strain,  and  the  demon  gave  me  rest. 
I  sought  the  bed  and  a  peaceful  sleep 
Buried  my  soul  in  a  torpor  deep. 

They  brought  me  out  at  an  early  day ; 
To  this  mad-house  then  I  was  borne  away ; 
And  here  I  suffer  from  year  to  year, 
With  nothing  but  insane  shrieks  to-hear. 

How  long  I  have  been  here  I  cannot  tell, 
In  a  living  grave,  in  an  earthly  hell ! 
I  am  not  mad,  as  all  men  aver, 
I  am  not !     I  almost  wish  I  were  ! 

Oh,  if  I  could  but  the  past  forget ! 
If  I  could  but  die  in  my  sleep  -^  and  yet, 
My  ruined  soul  is  the  Devil's  own  ; 
He  only  waits  till  my  life  is  done. 

I  am  not,  I  tell  you,  I  am  not  mad  ! 

I  wonder  I  am  not,  I  am  so  bad  ; 

And,  with  a  fiend  pounding  my  aching  brain, 

It  is  strange  to  me  I  am  not  insane. 


The  Maniac.  233 

He  is  walking  now  in  my  throbbing  head  ; 
My  skull  resounds  with  his  heavy  tread. 
O,  God  in  heaven  !     Thy  lost  one  bless, 
By  blotting  him  out  into  nothingness  ! 

XVI. 

He  is  stamping  now 

With  a  red-hot  hoof  j 
He  dances  and  yells 

'Neath  my  skull's  arched  roof. 

The  quivering  brain 

In  my  throbbing  brow 
With  his  fiery  nails 

He  is  tearing  now. 

He  gnaws  its  fibers 

With  venomed  jaws ; 
He  plucks  my  eyeballs 

With  blazing  claws. 

Great  God,  have  mercy  ! 

Oh,  strike  me  dead  ! 
Satan,  call  thy  servant 

From  out  my  head  ! 

Oh,  hell  and  torment ! 

I'll  dash  you  out 
On  the  pitiless  stone  walls 

Round  about ! 


234  The  Maniac. 

I  will  tear  you  out 

With  my  furious  hands  ! 
But  no  —  the  firm  bone 

My  strength  withstands  ! 

'Tis  useless  !     The  Lord 

And  the  Devil  as  well 
Have  doomed  me,  living, 

To  worse  than  hell ! 

Vain,  vain,  though  the  cell  walls 

Around  are  red 
With  hair,  blood-clotted, 

Dashed  from  my  head  ! 

XVII. 

But  hark  !  a  murmur  runs  along  the  wall, 
And  blue  flame-flashes  flicker,  fade  and  fall, 
Now  —  blackness  all ! 

Again  they  come;  they  brighten,  blue  and  cold, 
All  but  one  corner  that  the  shadows  hold. 
See  !  they  unfold  ! 

See  !  see  !  my  murdered  love  j  see  !  there  she  stands, 
Just  as  I  saw  her  dying  in  my  hands; 
Vengeance  demands  ! 

Her  face  all  black  with  choking  still  appears, 
But  mildewed  with  the  grave-mould  of  long  years ; 
At  me  she  leers  ! 


The  Maniac.  235 

Her  eyes  are  forced  out  of  their  proper  place 
Half  finger  length  ;  they  glare  across  the  space 
Into  my  face  ! 

The  long,  black  tongue,  the  horrid,  fallen  jaw, 
Have  withered,  blackened  in  the  enamel's  maw ; 
Sight  full  of  awe  ! 

Open,  ye  solid  walls,  and  swallow  me 
From  sight  too  fearful  for  a  man  to  see 
And  yet  to  be  ! 

God  !  Satan  !  Heaven  !  Hell  !  one  !  any !  all ! 
Oh,  save  me  from  that  specter  by  the  wall 
In  shroud  and  pall ! 

She  comes!   Help!  help!  Oh,  spare  me,  spare  me,  thou ! 
Pity,  forgiveness  for  my  crime  allow  ! 
Oh  spare  me  now  ! 

Long  years  of  torture,  grief,  remorse,  regret, 
Have  been  my  lot  and  portion  since  we  met. 
Oh,  spare  me  yet ! 

I  long  repented  what  I  did  to  thee. 
'Twas  not  I,  but  the  fiend  that  entered  me, 
Set  your  soul  free  ! 

What,  gone?     And  has  she  left  me?     Yes;  'tis  so  ! 
I  tremble  !     Icy  breezes  on  me  blow  ! 
Cold  sweat-drops  flow  ! 


236  The  Maniac. 

My  eyes  are  burning  in  my  aching  brow  ; 

The  awful  specter's  fled,  I  know  not  how, 

That  late  —  What  now  ! 

XVIII. 

Back,  you  awful  apparition, 

With  your  red  eyes  flashing  fire, 
With  your  every  breath's  emission 

Belching  sulphur-vapors  dire  ! 
Each  hideous  feature  on  your  face 
Warped  up  and  twisted  out  of  place  ! 

Go,  you  gaunt  and  grisly  goblin, 
Wrinkled-skinned  and  bacon-hued, 

On  your  red-hot,  split  hoofs  hobbling, 
With  your  claws  with  blood  imbrued, 

With  your  live,  hissing,  snaky  hair, 

Spitting  black  venom  everywhere  ! 

Yes,  old  Satan  !     Well  I  know  you, 
With  your  dark  form  dripping  fire, 

With  your  forky  tail  below  you 

Smeared  in  hell's  black  poison-mire, 

Away  !  I  will  not  go  with  you 

To  the  hot  realm  from  which  you  flew  ! 

XIX. 

Great  God  !     Let  go, 
You  fiend  of  woe  ! 

Your  red-hot  talons  pierce  me  through } 
The  dripping  hell-fire  falls  on  me  and  sticks  to  me  like 
glue. 


The  Maniac.  237 

The  serpents  dread 
That  crown  your  head 
Gnaw  deep  into  my  quivering  flesh, 

Spitting  their  cankering  venom  as  they  tear  each  wound 
afresh  ! 

The  sickening  fume 
Pervades  the  room  ! 
You  tear  me  with  your  fiendish  claws 

To  fragments  !     Oh,  I  never  knew  what  hellish  torment 
was  ! 

My  quick  flesh  fries 
Before  your  eyes  ! 

The  poison  from  your  features  grim 

Cankers   and   festers,    eating   vein   and    sinew  from  each 
limb. 

O,  Heaven  on  high 
Hear  my  good-bye  ! 

Who  says  I'm  mad?    What  stops  my  breath? 
Ha,    ha !    I  am  a  devil    now !     Great   God,    can   this  be 
death  ? 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Dec.  jo-jf,  1884. 


238  A  Ruin. 


A  RUIN. 

Lone,  deserted,  stands  the  dwelling 

That  was  home  long  years  ago, 
And  the  mildewed  rooms  are  vacant 

That  have  echoed  joy  and  woe ; 
Sagging  beam  and  doorless  portal', 

Crumbling  wall  and  shattered  floor, 
Plainly  tell  their  mournful  story 

Of  the  feet  that  come  no  more. 

Broken  is  the  roof  dismantled, 

And  the  storms  of  heaven  pour 
Through  its  holes  and  rotten  rafters 

On  the  moldy  attic  floor. 
Only  bat,  and  bird,  and  beetle 

In  the  empty  chambers  hide, 
Where  men  slept  and  where  they  suffered, 

Where  they  lived  and  where  they  died. 

Fallen  chimneys,  broken  hearthstones, 

In  the  cellar  blended  lie, 
Whose  bright,  merry  blaze  up-flashing 

Warmed  and  cheered  in  days  gone  by ; 
But  no  more  the  back-log's  sparkle 

Lights  the  dim,  decaying  room, 
Once  a  glad  home's  happy  refuge, 

Now-sad,  silent  as  a  tomb  ! 


A  Ruin.  239 

Brier-grown  the  pathways  leading 

To  those  door-stones  dank  with  moss, 
O'er  whose  black  and  broken  thresholds 

Human  footsteps  never  cross  ; 
And  the  unglazed,  sashless  windows, 

In  dull  questioning  surprise, 
Stare  away  into  the  future 

With  their  vacant,  spectral  eyes. 

They  are  gone,  and  gone  forever, 

Those  walls  knew  in  days  of  yore ; 
Each  and  all  long  since  departed 

To  come  back  again  no  more. 
Now  the  sad  and  sinking  ruin, 

Blackened  by  the  breath  of  years, 
Tells  alone  they  once  existed 

In  a  world  of  smiles  and  tears. 

Gone  the  maid,  and  gone  the  matron, 

Grandsire  grey  and  blooming  bride  ; 
Gone  the  child,  and  gone  the  parent, 

Crossed  beyond  the  swelling  tide. 
All  forgot  their  pains  and  pleasures, 

All  their  plans,  and  prayers,  and  strife  : 
These  walls  are,  in  ruin  falling, 

The  sole  record  of  their  life. 


240  A  Ruin. 

May  be  shades  of  those  departed 

Enter  where  they  enter  not ; 
May  be  viewless  spirits  hover 

Round  this  desolated  spot. 
Certainly  the  place  is  haunted 

By  the  thoughts  and  dreams  of  yore, 
But  those  whom  it  loved  and  sheltered 

In  the  flesh  return  no  more. 

Long  Island,  Me.,  Nov.  28th,  1889. 


In  the  Churchyard.  241 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD. 

Under  the  daisies  together  are  lying, 

Side  by  side  sleeping,  the  poor  and  the  proud. 

Rich  man  and  pauper,  alike,  upon  dying, 
Rest  from  their  labor  in  coffin  and  shroud. 

Little  care  they  whether  silver-plate  burnished 
And  costly  linen  lie  white  on  the  breast, 

Or  the  rough  pine  wood,  by  charity  furnished, 
And  the  coarse  cotton  protect  their  last  rest. 

Proud  marble  shafts  of  a  pure,  snowy  whiteness 
Stand  looking  down  on  slate  tombstones  so  small, 

While  close  behind  where  they  rise  in  their  brightness, 
Green  mounds  are  seen  with  no  tablets  at  all. 

Here  lies  the  poet  who  once  moved  the  nation, 
Weaving  pure  thoughts  in  his  musical  rhyme, 

Blessing  the  world  in  the  airy  creation 
Of  his  bright  fancy  and  genius  sublime. 

But  the  great  brain  in  which  genius  was  burning 
Molders  to  dust  in  this  green,  silent  bed  ; 

Hands  of  the  poet  to  ashes  are  turning, 
While  the  blue  violets  wave  o'er  his  head. 


242  lu  the  Churchyard. 

Here  lies  the  miser,  whose  god  was  his  money ; 

Waiving  all  questions  of  right  and  of  wrong, 
Cruelly  robbing  life's  flower  of  its  honey, 

He  preyed  on  weak  ones  because  he  was  strong. 

But  the  hard  heart  has  forgotten  its  grasping ; 

Hoards  that  he  worshipped  are  squandered  and  gone  ; 
Earth  his  stern  form  to  her  bosom  is  clasping; 

Want's  grim  oppressor  sleeps  silently  on. 

In  this  green  nook  a  great  statesman  is  lying, 

Whose  burning  eloquence  swayed  the  whole  world ; 

Whose  glowing  speeches  of  wisdom  undying, 
On  wings  of  lightning  to  distant  lands  whirled. 

But  the  full  voice  of  the  statesman  is  silent, 
And  the  great  mind  has  departed  for  aye, 

And  the  grand  face,  with  the  fire  that  the  eye  lent, 
In  the  dark  coffin  has  dropped  to  decay. 

Here  close  beside  him  a  pauper  is  sleeping, 

icorned  in  his  lifetime,  despised  at  his  death; 
ving  —  a  beggar  through  almshouses  creeping, 
Dead  —  just  as  good  as  a  king  without  breath. 

Back  into  dust  in  the  same  field  are  turning 

Author  and  idiot,  teacher  and  fool. 
Each  of  them  spent  a  whole  lifetime  in  earning 

Six  feet  of  earth  in  the  old  churchyard  cool. 


In  the  Churchyard.  243 

Young  and  old,  falling  before  the  grim  reaper, 
Silently  in  their  last  home  have  been  laid. 

Tumult  or  care  never  troubles  the  sleeper 
Lying  at  rest  in  this  green,  leafy  shade. 

Grand  aspiration  and  lofty  emotion, 

Basest  desire  and  groveling  fear, 
Feverish  toil  and  untiring  devotion, 

Ended  at  last,  find  a  resting-place  here. 

Youthful  and  beautiful  mortals  have  perished, 
Ugly  and  old  ones  have  dropped  to  decay. 

Here  lies  the  beauty  that  artists  have  cherished ; 
Here  plainest  features  to  worms  fall  a  prey. 

Under  the  roof  of  the  blue  dome  of  heaven, 
Sheltered  from  storms  by  the  grasses  that  wave, 

Here  where  their  forms  to  the  earth  have  been  given, 
Let  them  rest  on  in  embrace  of  the  grave. 

Sleeping  the  sleep  that  shall  know  no  awaking, 
Here  let  them  lie  in  their  slumber  profound 

Till  the  morn  of  resurrection  is  breaking 

And  the  whole  earth  to  the  trump  shall  resound. 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Feb.  ibth,  1883. 


244  Come,  Sing  to  Me. 


COME,  SING  TO  ME. 

Come,  sing  to  me  in  the  gloaming, 

As  the  twilight  shadows  fall, 
And  the  firelight's  fitful  flashes 

Are  flickering  on  the  wall ; 
For  my  heart  with  care  is  burdened, 

And  sad  is  my  soul  to-night, 
But  your  voice  has  power  to  soothe  me 

And  make  all  my  troubles  light. 

Sing  not  from  the  classic  authors 

The  melodies  strange  and  wild. 
But  the  old  and  the  plaintive  ballads 

I  listened  to  when  a  child  ; 
And  then,  on  the  wings  of  music 

And  the  sweet  and  tender  rhyme, 
My  soul  will  go  floating  backward 

To  the  happy  and  olden  time. 

With  "  Sweet  Home's  "  musical  cadence 

My  memory  swiftly  flies 
To  the  blissful  days  of  childhood 

And  youth's  fair  morning  skies, 
And  the  bright  days  unforgotten 

In  the  old  house  on  the  hill; 
And  again  as  a  child  I  wander, 

No  guide  but  my  own  sweet  will. 


Come,  Sing  to  Me.  245 

And  the  strains  of  the  "  Swanee  River," 

As  softly  around  they  float, 
A  rare  blessing  seem  to  bring  me 

With  every  liquid  note  ; 
A  pleasure  that's  mixed  with  sadness, 

For  "everywhere  I  roam," 
That  song  always  brings  a  longing 

For  the  dear  "  old  folks  at  home." 

Come  sing  the  "  Last  Rose  of  Summer," 

With  its  sweet  and  plaintive  air,  . 

For  it  seems  to  float  around  me 

Like  the  sound  of  an  angel's  prayer; 
And  thoughts  of  the  ones  who  sang  it 

In  the  happy  days  gone  by 
Bring  the  spirit  a  tender  sadness, 

And  misty  light  to  the  eye. 

Such  melodies  bring  me  fancies 

And  dreams  of  the  olden  times, 
When  I  listened  to  other  voices 

Soft  breathing  those  dear  old  rhymes ; 
But  those  singers  are  widely  scattered, 

The  friendship  of  some  grown  cold; 
Some  distant,  and  some  are  sleeping 

Low  under  the  churchyard  mold. 


246  Come,  Sing  to  Me. 

Yet  the  old  familiar  ballads 

All  bring  me  a  sense  of  rest, 
And  the  thoughts  they  cause  are  soothing 

To  my  weary  and  troubled  breast ; 
And  I  love  the  dear  old  pieces 

I  listened  to  years  ago  ; 
At  their  notes  Time's  resistless  river 

Seems  to  stop  in  its  ceaseless  flow. 

Then  sing  to  me  in  the  twilight 

Some  melody  old  and  sweet, 
While  the  shadows  of  night  are  falling 

And  the  darkness  becomes  complete. 
My  mind  shall  go  drifting  backward 

To  the  hours  of  the  happy  past, 
And  peace  shall  replace  my  troubles 

While  shadows  are  gathering  fast. 

North  Fay  cite,  Me.,  Nov.  141/1,  1884. 


In  Dreamland.  247 


IN  DREAMLAND. 

Oft,  when  alone,  from  the  Land  of  the  Shadows 

In  the  dead  past  comes  my  childhood  to  me  ; 
Oft  in  my  fancy  I  roam  o'er  the  meadows 

And  throHgh  the  forests,  by  mountain  and  lea. 
But,  all  too  soon,  the  bright  visions  departing 

Over  my  spirit  a  sadness  will  cast, 
As,  from  these  day-dreams  of  pleasure  upstarting, 

I  see  the  present  and  not  the  fair  past. 

Oft,  in  my  musings,  I  raise  the  soft  curtain 

Ever  concealing  the  future  from  view, 
And  in  a  dreamland  so  sweet  and  uncertain 

Wander  'mid  pleasures  too  sweet  to  be  true. 
But  those  light  castles  that  fancy  is  rearing, 

Vanishing,  leave  the  stern  present  again, 
And  their  fair,  rosy  hues  on  disappearing 

Leave  a  sad  feeling  that's  kindred  to  pain. 

Round  the  past  hours  hangs  a  halo  of  glory, 

Rainbows  of  splendor  to  memory  cling, 
Time  makes  them  tell  so  enchanting  a  story, 

The  present  fair  seems  a  pleasureless  thing; 
While,  in  the  future,  a  fairy-like  brightness 

Beckons  us  on  with  its  mystery  rare ; 
Striving  for  shadows  we  think  not  of  duty, 

Or  present  scenes  though  they  too  may  be  fair. 


248  In  Dreamland. 

Thus  in  a  dreamland  we  mortals  are  living, 

Half  in  the  future  and  half  in  the  past ; 
Noting  not  pleasures  the  present  is  giving; 

Clasping  the  shadow  while  substance  flies  fast ; 
Chasing  the  future  that's  flitting  before  v.o ; 

Yearning  o'er  happy  hours  vanished  for  aye; 
Never  once  seeing  bright  skies  bending  o'er  us, 

Or  the  rich  gifts  of  a  joyous  to-day. 

Oh,  could  we  value  our  joys  ere  we  lose  them, 

Pick  up  the  gems  lying  close  at  our  feet, 
See  all  our  chances  ere  too  late  to  use  them, 

Then  would  this  life  of  ours  be  doubly  sweet  ! 
Distance  to  past  and  to  future  is  lending 

Beauties  unnoticed  if  now  they  were  ours; 
Briers  that  tear  us  when  round  they  are  bending 

Before  or  behind  us  seem  nothing  but  flowers. 

Monwou///,  Me.,  March  2$th,  1884. 


Good-bye.  249 


GOOD-BYE. 

There's  a  word  that  oft  comes  from  the  depths  of  the  heart, 
A  word  that  oft  causes  the  tear-drops  to  start, 
And  the  quivering  lip  and  the  dim,  misty  eye 
Tell  the  sorrow  repressed  when  is  breathed  with  a  sigh 
The  one  word,  "  Good-bye  !  " 

Good-bye  !     God  be  with  you  !     A  prayer  and  farewell  ! 
How  much  of  deep  feeling  two  syllables  tell  ! 
Though  oft  lightly  said  when  the  lashes  are  dry, 
How  much  still  unspoken  that  word  may  imply, 
The  tender  good-bye  ! 

And  when  it  is  breathed  as  the  friend  parts  from  friend, 
Knowing  not  if  on  earth  separation  may  end, 
Feeling  hearts  may  grow  still  that  are  now  beating  high, 
And  under  the  daisies  forever  may  lie, 
How  sad  the  good-bye  ! 

How  hard  it  is  torn  from  the  innermost  heart 
Of  those  who  well  know  they  forever  must  part ! 
With  what  grief  comes  then  the  farewell  and  reply  ! 
What  sorrow  is  breathed  in  the  loving  good-bye, 
The  last,  long  good-bye  ! 


250  Good-bye. 

And  when  at  the  bedside  where  life's  labors  close, 
Where  friends  sink  forever  to  death's  long  repose, 
No  wonder  that  tears  are  o'erflowing  the  eye, 
And  voice  is  half  choked  with  the  heart-broken  sigh 
At  saying  good-bye  ! 

The  time  is  fast  coming  when  all  upon  earth 
Must  pass  on,  though  little  or  great  be  their  worth; 
The  hour  of  departure  is  fast  drawing  nigh 
When  all  must  bid  earth,  with  a  death-closing  eye, 
An  eternal  good-bye. 

Yet  tender,  though  sad,  are  the  fancies  that  cling 
Round  the  word  that  earth's  partings  to  weeping  ones  bring, 
And  sweet,  though  regretful,  the  last,  loving  sigh, 
The  prayer,  the  farewell,  the  old,  tender  good-bye ; 
God  be  with  you  !     Good-bye  ! 

North  Fayette,  Me.,  Aug.  i8th,  /88j. 


In  the  Firelight.  251 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT. 

Softly  now  the  evening  twilight 

On  the  silent  landscape  falls, 
And  the  great  old-fashioned  fireplace 

Throws  its  flashes  on  the  walls. 
As  the  flames  go  leaping  upward 

In  the  chimney  dark  and  wide, 
Lights  and  shadows  quickly  changing 

Dance  around  on  every  side. 

As  the  firelight  leaps  and  flickers, 

And  its  warmth  steals  through  the  room, 
And  all  things  are  alternating 

'Twixt  its  flashing  and  the  gloom, 
Thoughts  come  rushing  fast  upon  me 

Sitting  in  the  firelight  bright. 
Like  its  rays  my  fancy  changes 

As  I  watch  the  shifting  light. 

And  amid  my  quiet  musings 

Thoughts  of  loved  ones  gone  before 
Seem  to  fill  the  changing  shadows, 

With  forms  I  shall  see  no  more. 
Lost  ones,  though  still  unforgotten, 

Seem  once  more  to  enter  here, 
And  I  listen  for  their  spirits 

In  the  firelight  drawing  near. 


252  In  the  Firelight. 

Lovingly  they  cluster  round  me, 

And  their  presence  I  can  feel, 
And  my  soul  holds  sweet  communion 

With  those  that  around  me  steal. 
Pleasant  thoughts,  like  inspirations, 

From  the  shadows  seem  to  come, 
And  my  musings  seem  like  breathings 

From  the  soul's  eternal  home. 

Peaceful  is  the  hour  of  evening 

In  the  dimly  lighted  room, 
While  the  firelight's  ruddy  flashes 

Dart  and  quiver  through  the  gloom. 
My  heart  loses  pains  and  sorrows, 

That  have  worn"  it  through  the  day, 
And  care's  wrinkles  from  my  forehead 

Angels  seem  to  smooth  away. 

When  I  think  of  those  who  sat  here 

By  this  light,  in  days  long  past, 
"Pis  no  wonder  through  the  shadows 

Spirit  forms  seem  crowding  fast. 
Many  hearts  that  once  were  beating 

In  its  warm  and  ruddy  glow, 
Underneath  the  churchyard  grasses 

Fell  to  dust  long  years  ago. 


In  the  Firelight.  253 


Though  the  huge  old-fashioned  fireplace 

Sends  a  greeting  to  my  heart 
At  all  hours,  and  its  bright  flashes 

Always  pleasant  thoughts  impart, 
Yet  'tis  at  the  hour  of  twilight 

That  its  blaze  the  dearest  seems, 
And  the  dancing  lights  and  shadows 

Bring  to  me  the  sweetest  dreams. 

Blessings  on  the  ancient  fireplace, 

That  has  blazed  for  many  a  year  ! 
May  its  wide  mouth  still  continue 

With  its  warmth  all  hearts  to  cheer  ! 
May  the  beech  log's  merry  crackle 

Still  be  heard  in  days  to  come, 
When  the  one  who  sings  its  praises 

Shall  have  reached  the  silent  home  ! 

North  Fayetfe,  Me.,  New.  i6th,  1884. 


254  U  Envoi. 


L'ENVOI. 

Go  your  way,  my  little  volume,  first  fruits  of  an  unpruned 

tree, 
Growing  wild  beside  the  highway.     Little  wonder  'tis  to 

me 
That  its  windfalls,    small   and  shapeless,   bitter  acid-balls 

should  be. 

Harsh  and   untaught    is   my   singing,     haply    better   left 

undone; 
False  notes  flutter  through  the  music,  jarring  discords  pain 

and  stun  ; 
But  through  rude  and  Runic  measures  chords  of  sweetness 

sometimes  run. 

Far  above,  the  mighty  masters  of  poetic  art  divine 
Breathe  their  strains  of  heavenly  sweetness,  passion  thrilling 

through  each  line ; 
Few  and  faint  the  feeble  murmurs  that  re-echo  back  from 

mine. 


L 'Envoi.  255 

Humble  these,  my  heartfelt  numbers,  yet  perhaps,  a  reader 

just 
Some   pure    thought-gems  may   discover  in  the  worthless 

wordy  dust ; 
Judge  not  harshly  these  weak  efforts,  for  I  sing  because  I 

must. 

May  be  I  should   not   be   silent,    though    no   Muse   with 

heavenly  fire 
Touched  my  lips,  and  though  my  fingers  sweep  a  rude  and 

tuneless  lyre, 
Though  my  feeble  voice  may  never  swell  the  Bards'  angelic 

choir. 

Does  the  streamlet  cease  to  murmur  rippling  music  on  its 

way, 
Just  because  the  ocean's  grandeur  does  not  thunder  through 

its  lay, 
Or  the   river's   rushing   rhythm   drowns  its  ever-chiming 

play? 

Do  the  faint  stars  cease  to  tremble  with  their  pure  and  holy 

light, 
Lest  the  full  moon  dim  their  luster  when  she  rises  broad 

and  bright, 
Flinging  floods  of  pearly  glory  from  her  throne  as  queen 

of  night? 


256  L  Envoi. 

Does  the  wild  bird  cease  to  warble  with  the  music  in  his 

heart, 
When  the  trained  and  caged  canary   far  excels  him  in  the 

art? 
So  with  me:  my  songs,  unbidden,  into  being  seem  to  start. 

I  must  sing  !  but,  little  volume,  ere  your  leaves  forgotten 

lie, 
If  you  soothe  one  troubled  spirit,  then  your  memory  may 

die; 
Your   work   will   be  well   accomplished.     May  it  be  so; 

Child,  good  bye ! 
North  Fayette,  Me.,  Dec.  sqth,  1889. 


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